Insontis
by VR Trakowski
Summary: How far will you go to protect what you love? GS COMPLETE
1. Default Chapter

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Sara watched in awe, suppressing the urge to drift over to the nearest door and put herself behind it for protection. Before her was something she considered as rare and stunning as a glimpse of a California condor.

David in a rage.

He was storming around the locker room, pacing, his hands twitching as he aborted his gestures, and while Sara knew he realized she was there, he was so far gone in fury that her presence simply didn't matter. It was like a typhoon, she thought - something completely natural and yet so out of the order of things that one felt fascinated.

And a little bit afraid.

She bit the inside of her cheek, hesitating, then finally drifted towards her locker, sitting down on the bench in front of it and watching David out of the corner of her eye. She opened the locker door and began fiddling with the contents, pulling out a brush and running it through her hair, and hoping that David would calm down eventually rather than put his fist through something. Her patience paid off. After a while he slowed, his mutters trailing off, and at last he stopped moving entirely, shoulders slumping. He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair, which had little effect.

Sara looked him in the eye for the first time since she'd come in - straight in the eye, since he wasn't wearing his glasses. "Want to talk about it?" she asked carefully.

He sighed again, blinking, and she more than half expected the crimson of rage fading from his cheeks to flood back with embarrassment, but instead he shrugged, and sat carefully at the end of her bench, automatically whisking his lab coat out of the way.

"Have you ever been betrayed?" he asked without preamble, and Sara snorted, a little surprised by his tack.

"Oh yeah. Who hasn't?" She cocked her head and regarded him. "Is that what this is about?"

"In...indirectly," David stammered, apparently suddenly aware of just who he was talking to. "It's not me."

Sara laid her brush down on the bench and raised her brows, inviting him to continue.

He looked down, tangling his hands together. "You know how something hurts worse when it happens to someone you love, than when it happens to you?"

"Who is it?" she coaxed softly.

"'Natha. My little sister." His strong fingers twisted into a knot. "She was supposed to get married next week."

_Uh-oh._ Sara's stomach sank at the implication of _was_, but she just waited.

"She caught her fiancé in bed with her maid of honor last night," David went on softly. "It's a very good thing for him that she didn't tell anyone until today, because if I know my dad, he has half of Nellis Air Force Base out looking for the bastard."

His tone was calm and chilly, and Sara shivered. David was such a gentle soul that she tended to forget his family's tradition of service to the arts of war; but in his voice now she could hear the echoes of generations of implacable warriors. "So you think he's skipped town?"

David snorted and looked up, his gaze briefly amused. "If he's smart, he's left the country." His head dropped again and he went on, sounding almost reflective. "She had it all planned out, her dream wedding...bridesmaids in pink, Dad and me in tuxes, even the music - they were going to dance to "My Heart Will Go On" or something awful like that..."

"How old is she?" Sara asked, curious. She knew some women who held onto such dreams for longer, but this sounded like the fantasy of a fairly young woman.

"Twenty-three," David said, his face softening a little. "My little sister. I really want to kill him, you know," he added matter-of-factly. "I mean, I trusted him. I helped him shop for an engagement ring, even."

"I don't blame you," Sara replied firmly. "Geez, David, if he were within arm's reach I'd kill him myself." David started to smile, and she pointed a stern finger at him. "No jokes about how I'd never get caught!"

That made him laugh a little, and Sara relaxed somewhat, relieved to see his elemental fury subside. For a moment she went wistful. She didn't need protecting - never had - and she doubted that 'Natha did either, if she had her brother's brains and heart. But it would be nice to know that someone wanted to.

"So...you're a woman..." David said, his shyness returning. "What should I _do?_"

It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she'd never been engaged, how should she know, but she bit the words back. "Oreos," she said with confidence. "A whole bag of them. That works for me. And just be sympathetic, David - give her a shoulder to cry on, and don't let her convince herself that it's her fault her fiancé is a jerk."

He nodded, and pulled his glasses from his coat pocket, veiling himself behind them again. "She's my best friend," he said quietly. "I know it sounds weird, but she is. I have to be there for her."

"You will be," Sara assured him, patting him on the back as he stood. "You're the best, David. I mean that."

This time he did blush.

**xxxx**

Grissom stood just outside the door of the locker room, hand flat on it, one eye watching through the crack. He'd been about ten feet behind Sara when she'd entered the room, and when he'd realized just how upset David was, he'd decided that the better part of valor would be to head off anyone who might come in there. No one but Grissom knew how he admired the young coroner; in David, Grissom saw someone much like himself at a younger age, but possessing a far more open heart than he'd ever managed to achieve.

So he kept his ears open for approaching footsteps, and watched as Sara listened to David, watched as she eased his pain as best she could...and felt his gut twist when she put gentle arms around the coroner.

It meant no more than the bashful kiss David planted on her cheek in return, Grissom knew - in fact, it probably meant less. But he couldn't help mourning the fact that he'd pushed away the chance of even such a casual touch from Sara.

The closest she'd ever come to hugging him was the arm around his shoulders when she'd draped a blanket over him, one cold desert night not long after she'd come to Las Vegas. He'd known then, but hadn't let himself realize, that there was too much between them to be casual.

Then David pulled away, and Grissom faded back from the door, heading for his office.

**xxxx**

_Two nights later_

"Male DB," O'Reilly said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the patch of woody scrubland near I-15. "Some bright boy at Highway Patrol spotted too many vultures and decided to check it out."

Grissom nodded, hearing Sara's footsteps approaching behind him. "Are the lights on the way?"

"Already on it," O'Reilly said with satisfaction. "In fact - "

A rising hum and a _whump_ cut off his words, and the scraggly trees were suddenly lit starkly by floodlights.

"Great. Shut them off," Grissom instructed, striding towards the scene.

O'Reilly rolled his eyes behind Grissom's back. "I know, I know, you have to check the scene out first. Geeks."

Sara, following Grissom, threw O'Reilly a cheeky grin. "And if they hadn't been here he would have complained that they were late. Give it up, you can't win."

"What is it they say these days? Bite me?" O'Reilly muttered, and reached for his phone to give the order. A few seconds later the lights went out with a loud click.

The two CSIs blinked rapidly as their vision adjusted, then turned on their handlights, following the narrow path into the trees. Within lay the crumpled body of a dark-haired man, limbs twisted in positions that clearly indicated death. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and dark slacks, but just one shoe.

"Body dump," Sara noted, her light picking up distinct drag marks in the sandy soil. "This has to be the only patch of trees within ten miles."

"I-15 seems to be a favorite place for ditching corpses," Grissom remarked, circling the body. "Thousands of vehicles pass by every day, but very few people actually walk along it. And even if they did, they would probably assume that the smell is from roadkill."

"Well, the Highway Patrol officer was on the ball, then."

The two of them lapsed into the synchronitic silence that had become all too rare lately, smoothly cataloguing the scene without getting in each others' way. They could not touch the body until the coroner pronounced, and the cause of death was not obvious, but Grissom crouched down next to the vacant-eyed man and began selecting beetle samples from the travelers to and from the corpse, while Sara took photos and eventually backtracked the drag trail. Grissom was absorbed in his bugcatching, but realized dully that - as usual - one corner of his brain was monitoring her whereabouts, a habit that had begun the day of the lab explosion over a year before.

Sara reappeared before long, however, her footsteps making an occasional crunch loud enough to be heard over the rise-and-fall of noise from the highway. "Can we turn the lights back on yet, Griss? I can't see enough."

"Wait until the body's moved," Grissom instructed. "Some of these species are nocturnal. I don't want them thinking it's sunrise."

"Gotcha." Sara pointed her flashlight beam in the direction of the approaching familiar rattle. The man towing the gurney, however, wasn't who they were expecting. "Oh, hey, Frank. Where's David?"

The tall man grinned at her. "Not in yet, said he was running late. Some kind of family crisis."

Sara frowned a little. "Yeah, I heard something about that. I hope everything's okay."

Frank parked the gurney at the edge of the clearing and stepped carefully forward. "Yeah, me too. I hate these long-distance calls." His smile kept his words from sounding petty. Skirting around Grissom and his insect paths, Frank bent over the corpse and began the routine of determination and declaration.

"No wallet, no ID; several stab wounds to the back," he reported as he rolled the body onto its side. "Looks like cause of death to me."

Peering over his shoulder, Sara whistled softly. The back of the shirt was practically in ribbons.

"Further proof that this is a secondary scene," Grissom noted from the other side. "There's nowhere near enough blood here."

Frank nodded, brushing up the untucked shirt with a gloved hand. "Lividity indicates he was lying on his back, but even I can see where he was dragged in here."

"Hold on," Sara murmured, her eyes narrowing. Pulling her forceps from her vest, she bent over the corpse and retrieved a hair from the collar. Grissom reached into his own pocket for a bindle, and held it out to her. "Thanks," she said, looking faintly surprised.

"All set?" Frank asked cheerfully, and Grissom cocked his head, looking inquiringly at Sara. She straightened and stepped back.

"All yours. Can we please turn the lights on now, Grissom?"

"Go ahead," he said, already distracted as Frank rolled the corpse expertly into the bag and further six-legged specimens headed for the hills.

Sara headed back towards O'Reilly and the other police, Frank following shortly with the burdened gurney; Grissom snagged a last few insects, then blinked furiously as the lights came back on. The patch of woods was suddenly full of razor-edged shadows - not the best way to find evidence, but it would show up things that their handlights could not find.

**xxxx**

He was still kneeling in the dirt when she came back, screwing a lid on a jar. Sara slowed her steps a fraction so she could watch, fascinated as always by the grace of his hands but aware of how rare such stolen pleasures had become. Their relationship...she just didn't know what to make of it any more. It was almost, she thought sometimes, as though they'd burned their friendship to the ground, and Grissom was trying to build something on the ashes.

She just wished she knew what the something was.

Work, however, was an ever-present comfort, a framework in which they could interact without so much confusion. Grissom was tucking the jars away into his kit, and without thinking about it, she stepped up next to him and - as though he were Nick or Catherine - offered him a hand up.

His eyes widened when he looked up and saw her arm extended, and she twitched, caught between the impulse to pull back and the stubborn part of her that didn't want to retreat in front of him. Then her palm was enveloped in the tough warmth of his, and she pulled automatically as he rose.

"Thanks," he said casually, letting her go and bending down for his light. Sara turned away to begin the search anew, trying to figure out the small squeeze he'd given her hand just before releasing it.

The harsh lights uncovered a number of interesting items - a clear drag trail back to the edge of the woods, tire tracks in the sandy soil - but nothing they didn't expect. Eventually Grissom called a halt, and they headed back to the lab.

Doc Robbins was already elbow-deep in another corpse when they arrived in the morgue, but he cheerfully stripped off his gloves at the sight of them and donned another pair. David waved shyly at Sara from the back of the room, and she waved back, smiling at him, though Grissom could see a wrinkle of concern on her brow.

"You're here for the stabbing victim, right?" Robbins asked, limping towards the drawers and pulling one open. "It's a train station around here tonight. Half of swing shift's cases got here late, thanks to traffic." He flipped back the sheet with an expert twist, revealing their young man from the woods. Grissom estimated his age at twenty-five or so.

"Cause of death was probably blood loss," Robbins informed the CSIs. "I haven't had time to open him up and make sure yet, but judging from the positioning of the cuts the killer didn't hit anything immediately fatal." He rolled the corpse onto its shoulder with a grunt. "Three slices close together - " He pointed. " - and two more a little further down. My guess is that the first three were done while the victim was standing, and the others after he'd fallen."

Grissom nodded. "Doesn't look like there was any hesitation there."

Robbins let the cadaver thump back down onto its back. A choking noise made them all look up; David stood a few feet away, hands full of a tray of instruments, eyes wider than they'd ever seen and his face paper-white.

The tray started to slip, and Grissom stepped forward to steady it. David's mouth opened, but no sound came out, and Robbins frowned in concern. "David?"

The young coroner's hands spasmed on the tray's edge, then let go entirely, and Grissom caught it. "Are you all right?"

David made another faint sound, nothing that Grissom could identify as a word, and suddenly bolted from the room. Swift as a stooping hawk, Sara ran after him, leaving the two older men to exchange worried glances.

* * *

**See Chapter 2**


	2. 2

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As regards the title - heh. Despite four years of high school Latin, I wouldn't know a genitive if it came up and tried to kiss me while waving a banner for the _International Grammar Recognition Challenge._ I put the word I wanted into an online English/Latin translator, and took what came out. **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

David could move surprisingly quickly when he wanted to; as Sara pushed through the morgue doors she saw him vanish around the corner at the end of the hall, and dashed after him. The next hallway was empty when she got to it, but it didn't matter. She knew where he'd gone.

The small bathroom at the far end of the building was never used because the toilet was broken, and its repair always seemed to fall off the bottom of the budget. Sara had found it not long after taking the CSI position in Vegas, and had made use of it as a refuge twice before noticing that someone else was disturbing the dust. A little observation had told her whose retreat it was, and she'd found someplace else to go instead, not willing to disturb the shy coroner's privacy.

But she remembered.

The toilet didn't work, but the lock did. Sara tried the knob, and then tapped lightly on the door. "David? It's me."

There was no response, and she rested her forehead on the cool metal and tapped again. "I'm not going away, so you might as well let me in."

After a moment she heard a rustle inside, and the lock snapped off. Sara turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door after her and locking it again, to be safe.

David had apparently replaced the harsh bulb with something lower-watt. The room was dim, and he sat slumped against the wall with his elbows on his knees and his hands over his face, eschewing the battered chair he'd dragged in. His glasses dangled from one hand, the earpiece caught between his fingers.

Sara put her back to the wall next to him and slid down to the floor. They sat for several minutes before she chose to break the silence. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nope." The word was muffled.

"Want to talk about it anyway?" When no answer was forthcoming, she bit her lip but continued. "Is it someone you know, David? We don't have an ID yet - "

"You don't need one," he said, and lowered his hands, blinking at the ceiling. His face was drawn, as though he had aged a decade in his flight down the corridor, and for the first time in Sara's experience he looked not at all boyish. "He's 'Natha's fiancé. Ex-fiancé."

Sara swallowed as the implications fell into place. If David was correct, and she had no doubt that he was, that probably made David's family members primary suspects in the man's murder.

Including his little sister. Including David himself.

"What's his name?" she managed at last.

"Corey Abel," David answered, putting on his glasses in an automatic move. "He's twenty-seven."

Sara had rarely felt so helpless. Before she could sort out her thoughts, however, her hip buzzed, and she reached down to unclip her phone.

_Need help? G._ read the text display, and one corner of her mind tucked away the surprise at his expressed concern.

_Not yet. Get Brass, _she typed and sent, and then set the phone down and just sat for a moment, trying to absorb it all and deal. Finally she nudged David's shoulder with her own.

"We have to go back out there," she said softly.

David sighed as though trying to push all the air out of his lungs. "I know," he muttered. "Geez, my dad - "

He cut off the words, and Sara pretended not to notice, pushing herself to her feet and holding out her hand for the second time that night. David looked up at her, and her stomach lurched at the anguish in his gaze. "Sara - I didn't kill him."

She looked back at him, her mind flashing to the memory of his elemental rage, to the fierce protectiveness in his voice when he'd told her of his little sister.

And spoke from the heart.

"I believe you."

The relief that swept over his face put a lump in her throat. She arched a brow, and he cleared his own throat, then leaned over to scoop up her phone before clasping her hand and letting her pull him up. His hand was cooler than Grissom's, and not so large; he handed her the phone with grave courtesy, then began dusting off his lab coat.

Sara glanced at the display, which now read only _OK,_ and clipped the device back at her waist before taking off her own coat and shaking it out. David coaxed a thin stream of water from the sink and splashed his face, drying it on his sleeve, then squared his shoulders. "Shall we?"

Sara shrugged back into her coat. "Let's do it." And with equal courtesy, held the door for him.

**xxxx**

Brass was swearing. Grissom was grateful, in a sense; it meant he didn't have to do any swearing himself. The situation was not at all good.

"Are you sure about the ID?" he asked suddenly, rounding on Grissom, who folded his hands on the conference table with deliberate care.

"We matched his license photo," he reminded the captain. "Corey Abel hasn't been seen for two days, and that matches our TOD estimate." He looked around the table at the worried faces - Sara, David, Robbins. The door to the conference room was firmly closed, a rarity, but he didn't want them disturbed just yet. This news would get out soon enough, and then things would really hit the fan.

Brass heaved a sigh, rubbed his face, and matched Grissom's folded hands with his own. "You're going to have to turn this over to day or swing shift."

"Swing. Day'll screw it up," Sara said sourly. She was leaning back in her chair, arms folded, but Grissom noticed that she'd pulled a little closer to David in silent support.

"Do you have to?" Robbins asked thoughtfully. "David isn't a CSI, he's not a member of your team."

"We're personally involved," Grissom protested. "We know David. On the stand we could legitimately be accused of bias."

"Not by anyone who knows you." David flushed at his own words, but pushed his glasses up defiantly. "Dr. Grissom, you're one of the most objective people I know. And Sara's the best. I'd rather have you guys..." He trailed off, apparently unable to articulate his thought, but Grissom understood, and was obscurely flattered.

"Even if the evidence points in the direction of a family member?" he asked, deliberately not naming names.

"That's just it. You'll follow the evidence." David straightened in his chair, looking determined. "And I know that none of my family did this." He looked around the table, wide-eyed but firm. "I know it."

Grissom sighed. "Well, ultimately it's not up to us. It's up to Ecklie, unfortunately. But if you want us to handle it, I'll try."

David's face was a study in gratitude, but it was Sara's expression of mingled approval and apprehension that stuck in Grissom's mind. He knew he could trust himself to be objective, and he knew he could trust her. And while he would depend on the evidence, he really didn't think David had murdered Corey. _But what if it was his sister or his father? What will that do to him? Or to Sara? _

He didn't know.

**xxxx**

The lab was a little quieter than usual the next night. Pulling into the parking lot, Grissom noticed that David's Honda cycle was missing from its usual spot, and guessed that the assistant coroner had probably been put on administrative leave pending the outcome of the investigation.

Grissom was early, but Sara still caught him in the hallway near his office. "Did we get it?" she asked without preamble.

"Yes," he said shortly. "Dayshift is overbooked as it is." He'd met with Ecklie that morning, and had more than a sneaking suspicion that the man was hoping they _would_ screw up so he could accuse them of bias. "But we document everything, Sara. For this case, we become paranoids."

"Yessss," she said fiercely, her grin hard, and Grissom felt a surge of delight at pleasing her even as he made his expression stern.

"Can you be objective about this?" It was more a reminder to curb her enthusiasm than a true question, but the brief flash of hurt in her eyes made him wonder if she understood that.

"As much as you can," she retorted coolly. "When do we start?"

"As soon as I've handed out assignments."

Corey Abel's apartment was about what they expected - the casual messiness of a young single man, and the luxuries consistent with someone who made a very good living at an investment bank. Grissom had elected to keep Greg and Sofia out of this investigation if possible, and seeing Greg's worried face that evening as he and Sofia waited for their nightly instructions strengthened his resolve.

The apartment showed no points of disturbance, no signs of cover-up. Wherever Abel had been murdered, it wasn't at home. Grissom sifted through the contents of the living room, finding three soft porn DVDs and a VHS tape of "Hee Haw" on top of the entertainment center and a small stash of marijuana behind some books in the bookcase, and wondered idly which was worse - the young man's drug use or his taste.

Lacking anything probative, he headed for the bathroom, sticking his head into the bedroom on the way and admiring the curve of Sara's bottom as she bent over the bed. "Anything?"

He half-expected her to jump, but she merely straightened, displaying a pair of pink lace panties hooked over one gloved finger. "Too small for him," was her only comment.

Grissom snorted. "What size?"

"Two."

He nodded, wondering what size 'Natha Phillips wore, and withdrew.

**xxxx**

_They aren't hers. _Sara looked through the glass into the interrogation room; Brass had asked 'Natha to come in for an interview, and her father had come with her. 'Natha was unmistakably David's sister, Sara thought - sweet of face and pleasant rather than beautiful, with eyes as large as her brother's and filled with the same kindness. And, Sara's own feminine eye told her, the young woman probably wore a size five or six in panties.

Colonel Phillips was taller than both his children, a solid man who exuded military authority. What hair he had left was cut close to his head, and he wore civilian clothes, but his shoulders were carried at an angle that left little room for doubt as to his position. He was scowling, while 'Natha looked worried, toying with the long braid that hung over one shoulder.

Brass sat opposite them, having taken over the case while O'Reilly was out for a family emergency. Assessing the situation with his usual skill, he was the consummate professional, one man in authority speaking to another - with respect, but without deference. "We need to know your whereabouts two nights ago, Colonel, Miss Phillips."

"I was at home with my wife," Phillips answered, and Sara knew from talking to O'Reilly that the only reason Mrs. Phillips wasn't in the room with her husband and daughter was the fact that she was a victim of muscular dystrophy; while she was not yet confined to a wheelchair, her muscles were too weak and her balance far too poor for her to have struck Abel multiple times.

"Well..." 'Natha shifted a little in her chair, and a blush crept over her cheeks. "What time?" Given that the body had been dumped, Grissom's insect timeline would not be of any use in determining time of death, but both he and Robbins had estimated that Abel had died about thirty-six hours before he'd been found, which meant that he'd probably been murdered sometime around dawn. But Brass didn't mention this, instead giving 'Natha a kind smile. "Why not give me the whole evening, Miss Phillips? I understand that it's embarrassing, but any detail could be important."

She looked at Brass, brown eyes guileless. "I...after dinner I went over to Susan's. I wanted to show her my veil, I'd picked it up that afternoon, and I let myself in - we have keys to each others' apartments and we're always going in and out." Her face was blotchy now, as though she were holding back tears or anger. "I didn't see Corey's car out front, but he was there, they both were, and - "

She gulped, and the colonel's hand tightened on her arm, but the young woman mastered her emotion and went on. "I didn't stay. I just ran." Her shoulders sagged. "I went right home and...I guess I kind of hid...I went to bed and didn't move until morning."

Brass' brows went up. "You didn't talk to anyone? Call someone?"

'Natha shook her head. "It's hard to explain...I was too...too embarrassed."

The interview was fairly standard, in Sara's experience; her off-the-cuff guess, were she green enough to go with it, was that neither the colonel nor 'Natha were responsible for Abel's murder, but she knew better than to jump to any conclusions.

She emerged from the observation room just before Brass let the Phillipses out, in time to see Grissom rounding the far corner of the hallway. At the sight of them, he came forward, brows going up, and Sara was slightly startled to see Colonel Phillips step forward and hold out one hand. "Doctor Grissom. It's good to see you again."

"Hello, Colonel." Grissom returned the firm handshake. "I wish the circumstances were better." He turned a polite gaze to 'Natha, and the colonel introduced her.

"My daughter 'Natha. David says you're handling this mess, Doctor."

"Miss Phillips." Grissom nodded to the young woman, who smiled shyly back. "Myself and CSI Sidle, yes."

Colonel Phillips exhaled heavily. "Glad to hear it. David says you two are the best."

"We'll follow the evidence, Colonel," Grissom warned evenly. "No matter where it leads."

The other man raised his chin, his gaze unyielding. "That's what I want to hear. None of mine did this, Dr. Grissom. And that's what your evidence will show."

Grissom tilted his head, raising one brow in acknowledgement and warning, and said a courteous goodbye before stepping past them to meet Sara. "We're meeting Brass in his office," he said.

"Where do you know him from?" Sara asked quietly as they walked down the hall.

Grissom smiled faintly, touching the small of her back lightly in one of those unconscious gestures that drove her up the wall. "An old case. The four Buddhist monks, shot in their own temple?"

"Right," she answered. "The cook did it. It's not going to come up in court?"

He shrugged. "The association was peripheral to the case; I mentioned it to Ecklie, and he gave us the go-ahead anyway. At this stage, Sara, the odds are that I'll encounter someone I know in about five percent of the cases I investigate. Vegas isn't that big a town."

"As long as the defense attorney knows that," Sara muttered.

Brass caught up with them just outside his office, and ushered them inside. "We're still trying to track down Susan Methody," he reported, leaning back in his desk chair. "She's a saleslady at one of the Atlantis boutiques, and she hasn't shown up at work for two days either."

"Do you think she's hiding?" Sara asked, and Brass shrugged.

"She might be hiding, she might be dead. If one of the Phillips clan killed Abel for cheating on 'Natha, they might have killed Susan too."

"I hate to say this, but could someone under Colonel Phillips' command have killed him?" Sara said reluctantly. "David said that his dad probably had people out looking for Abel."

Brass heaved a sigh. "Let's keep this down to a manageable number of suspects for the moment, huh?"

Grissom cocked his head. "It's something to keep in mind. At the moment, we have nothing to tell us who our murderer is, though we might have more when we finish processing. Follow the evidence, Sara. Let the police work motive." He ignored Brass' rude gesture.

On leaving Brass' office, Grissom and Sara decided to pick up with Robbins' report on their corpse, since his prelim had been interrupted by David's reaction. Grissom fetched properly doctored tea while Sara collected the paperwork, and they settled down in the breakroom to absorb caffeine and information.

Sara paged slowly through the medical examiner's file. "Doc says COD is definitely exsanguination," she reported absently. "A couple of the blows severed a major artery. They seem to have come in at a slight downward angle, but other than that there's nothing particularly distinguishing about them."

Grissom looked up from a file from Trace. "Abel was about six-two. That would mean that the blows delivered while he was standing were made by someone of less than average height."

"Oh, that's a lot of help," Sara said dryly.

Grissom didn't rise to the bait. "Tox?"

Sara flipped a page. "Traces of marijuana, but nothing recent. Certainly nothing that would have incapacitated him. Blood alcohol level was point-oh-two."

"So he'd had a drink, maybe two, but again, not enough to impair him." Grissom pursed his lips thoughtfully. "May I have the autopsy photos please?"

She slid the thin sheaf of glossies over, and he went through them slowly before laying one out on the table. "Bruising."

Sara craned her neck to look. "Yeah, around the second set of stab wounds. Whoever did it was pretty pissed to use that much force."

"But there's no bruising on the first set." Grissom held up one of the photos at a fresh angle, eyes narrow. "So were the first blows impulse? Or was the killer someone without much upper body strength?"

Sara thought about that for a moment. "You're thinking gravity helped on the second set?"

He gave her a small smile. "Assume nothing."

She looked back down at her file. "Yeah...it always gets me in trouble."

Grissom's smile faded at her words.

The cool silence lasted for a while. Grissom had found a few fibers in examining Abel's clothing, but nothing that pointed them in any one direction; they needed a comparison sample. No prints had turned up on anything printable from the body, and while Sara had matched the tire treads in the relevant database, they were an extremely common make. There was a distinguishing nick on one tire, but again, without something to compare to, the information was useless.

Finally the sound of a clearing throat made them both look up. Mia was standing in the doorway, and the expression on her face did not bode well. "Excuse me..."

Grissom regarded her over the edge of his glasses. "I assume you have something for us?" "Yeah," Mia replied, but it was to Sara she turned. "That hair you brought me? I found a match."

Sara sat up, feeling her mood improve. "What did CODIS give us?"

"It wasn't CODIS," Mia said, looking grave. "It was a compliance match."

_Oh no._ Sara's heart sank, and across the table she saw Grissom's lips move slightly, as though he were swearing under his breath. "Well?" he asked shortly.

"It's David Phillips," Mia said, and laid the printout down on the table carefully. "I triple-checked, Dr. Grissom, before you ask."

"I would expect no less," Grissom replied, his tone somehow making it a compliment. "Thank you, Mia." He lifted his eyes from the paper to those of the DNA tech. "I realize this won't stay private for long, but I'd prefer if nobody heard about it from you."

Mia straightened. "I don't gossip."

"Very good." Grissom picked up the printout, and Mia turned back towards the door

"Thanks," Sara added, and the tech gave her a sad smile before disappearing.

The two CSIs were silent a moment; Grissom stared at the paper, but he didn't really seem to be reading the data. Sara bit her lip, her mind beating against the thought that the gentle coroner might actually be responsible for Abel's death. It didn't seem possible, and yet she kept remembering his rage in the locker room, and the calm implacability in his voice when he'd spoken of the man. _What is it that Catherine says? Anybody's capable of anything? _

"It's not his style," she blurted out, surprising herself. "If David were going to kill someone he'd do it from the front, while they were looking at him. He wouldn't attack someone from behind."

Grissom looked up, his face drawn. "I agree with you. However, we have to go with what the evidence shows. And this is enough to get a search warrant for David's apartment." He snapped the paper down onto the table, the angry movement at odds with the calmness of his face.

"I'll call Brass," Sara said dully, but Grissom shook his head, his expression softening a little. "I'll do it, Sara. You go get some lunch or something."

"Oh, that's okay, I'm not hungry."

Her eyes widened as Grissom leaned over and took the file she was holding. "So? Go eat anyway. It's probably going to be a long shift."

"Uh...okay." Sara, puzzled at this sudden concern, stood hesitantly, and Grissom raised his brows at her and pointed at the door. Politeness was a reflex. "Do...do you want anything?"

"I've got a sandwich in my office. Go."

She went, heading for the nearest vending machine. _What's **with **him? Where'd all this thoughtfulness come from? _It was weird, how the man could change, and she wondered sometimes if there was any limit to his ability to baffle her. _It's like taking me home that night gave him the right to be worried about me or something. No, what was it? "Concerned," that's right. _She smirked a little, remembering his discomfort over that conversation.

She jammed coins into the slot and got herself two granola bars, then moved on to the soda machine for a cola. _Well, I wish he'd quit the back-and-forth. Make up your mind, Grissom. _

_So I can deal with it. _

**See Chapter 3**


	3. 3

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

They were a grim procession. The four of them entered David's apartment building in single file, Brass in the lead and an officer trailing behind. David opened his door at their knock, blinking solemnly at them behind his glasses, eyes lingering on Sara's blank face. "I've been expecting you," he said quietly, and stepped aside to let them in.

David knew the protocol, Grissom noticed as he paused in the living room to look around; the coroner had left the apartment and was waiting with the officer in the hallway, the warrant in his hand but watching the CSIs. There was trust in that gaze, and it made Grissom ache.

Aware of the younger man's affection for Sara, Grissom assigned her the kitchen and bathroom, taking David's bedroom for himself. It was surprisingly messy for someone so unrelentingly tidy in his work - not a disaster, but there were clothes on the floor and a tangle of papers and objects on the dresser. _Rebellion?_ Grissom wondered clinically, figuring that the colonel had probably run a tight household.

He sorted delicately through the stuff on the dresser, finding nothing out of the ordinary - receipts, two watches, a pair of cufflinks, other effluvia. The drawers of the dresser were neater than the rest of the room, socks rolled together, t-shirts folded; the closet, on the other hand, had a heaped floor. Grissom dug through shoes and jackets and a towel, but again nothing seemed out of place. There was nothing under the bed but dust and a small, crumby plate.

As he was pulling out the drawers of the small bedside cabinet, Sara stuck her head in. "He's got quite a collection of knives," she reported quietly, "among other equipment. None of them are a visual match for the stab wounds, but one tested positive for blood, so I bagged it."

Grissom nodded. "He may have cut himself. Anything else?"

"Not unless you count the murder of a perfectly innocent head of lettuce in the crisper," she replied, deadpan. "I'll hit the bathroom."

She disappeared, and Grissom looked down into the drawers. Two paperback books, a box of tissues, an unopened box of condoms, a battered calculator, and half a package of sugar wafers. Grissom shook his head, once again intrigued by the endless variety of the human race.

The living room, when he and Sara got that far, indicated that David's interests lay with classical music, kung-fu movies, and Super Mario Brothers. The CSIs found nothing that hinted that David had killed Abel, and eventually withdrew, Sara waving an awkward goodbye as they headed down the hallway. Brass held his tongue until they were back in Grissom's SUV. "Anything?"

"Sara found a knife with blood evidence," Grissom said. "But a kitchen knife with traces of blood is hardly unusual. We'll check it when we get back."

"You know, David's not stupid, and he's been working with you people for years," Brass said thoughtfully. "He'd have a pretty good idea of how to get rid of evidence."

"You really think he did it?" Sara demanded from the back seat, and Brass raised his hands in innocence.

"I'm just playing devil's advocate here. You know the D.A.'s going to think of it."

"It doesn't make sense," Sara said, frowning. "I mean, David's a coroner. He knows where all the vital points are. He wouldn't need five blows to kill someone."

"Rage killing?" Brass asked.

"If that were true, the first blows would show ecchymosis as well," Grissom pointed out.

"Well, I hope you turn something up that gets him out of the noose pretty soon," Brass warned. "The D.A.'s looking for a goat on this one. Apparently Abel's uncle is a crony of his."

Grissom's lips twisted. "Politics."

**xxxx**

"The blood on the knife came back as David's." Grissom looked up to see Sara leaning around the edge of his office door. "And O'Reilly wants us both, says something's turned up."

"Hold on, Matt," he said into the phone, then tilted it away from his face. "What is it?"

"A car abandoned on I-15, that's all I know," Sara answered. "I'm assuming it has to do with the Abel case, though."

"Right. You go, Sara, I can't leave right now." He wiggled his fingers at her, and she shrugged and left.

O'Reilly, back from family leave, was waiting for her, his face expressionless, near the small green car parked at the edge of one of the highway's exit ramps. "So what's up?" Sara asked as she approached.

"The car's been here a few days and finally got tagged for pickup." O'Reilly gestured; a bright orange label was pasted to the driver's-side window. "The officer who tagged it ran the plates. It's registered to Susan Methody."

Sara's brows went up. "The missing maid of honor."

O'Reilly nodded. "Have a look at the passenger seat."

The highway patrol officer popped the latch for her, and Sara trained her flashlight beam into the car. A rusty-red splash stood out vividly against the gray plush of the seat.

"Oh, great," she muttered. "It'll have to go back to the garage, but I need to look around first."

O'Reilly snorted. "Good luck," he said dryly.

Sara's own thoughts echoed his skepticism. The shoulder's cement would not hold tracks unless the vehicle was laying rubber, and whoever had abandoned the car had probably just walked down onto the highway and thumbed a ride, never setting foot onto the soil beyond the ramp. But procedure was procedure. She unslung her camera. "What's your next move?" she asked O'Reilly as she began walking along the edge of the shoulder.

The big man shrugged. "Normally? I'd be interrogating the bride-to-be. But a uniform picked up the surveillance tapes from her building and checked 'em. Her building has a good security system; they show her running in bawling, and then coming out again the next morning. And all the exits are covered by cameras."

Sara felt some of the nasty tension of the case ease. "So she does have an alibi."

O'Reilly grimaced. "It's not watertight, but her brother is a better suspect at this point."

The tension came back, redoubled.

Sara paged Grissom when they got the car to the lab garage, but all she got back was a return page telling her to go ahead.

So she did.

The car was actually quite a trove of evidence, once Sara got beyond the fluffy things hanging from the rearview mirror and the stuffed animals in the back window. Beyond the blood spatter, she found a number of brown hairs of two different lengths, some on the driver's headrest and some on the passenger headrest; in the back her ALS turned up signs of sexual activity. The trunk was the kicker, though - not only did it have smears of blood, it also contained what appeared to be Corey Abel's missing shoe.

She dusted for prints, finding plenty in the expected places, but none on the gearshift or on the steering wheel; they were wiped clean. The steering wheel was clear acrylic embedded with glitter, and made Sara's eyes ache.

And on one tire was the distinctive nick visible in the treads from the dump site.

Eventually, Sara ran out of things to search, and packed up her evidence. _Plenty of samples for Mia. _She glanced at the Trace lab clock as she passed. _Well, shift ended an hour ago. I might as well quit for now. _

Time was, she would have kept chasing the evidence through the day, but most of it waited on the DNA lab anyway, and - on the advice of her counselor - she'd been making an effort to spend less of her own time at work. Doing so was, by turns, frustrating and boring, but she stuck to the idea grimly. She'd lost control once and had no desire to do so again.

**xxxx**

"We've got a warrant to search Susan Methody's apartment," Grissom told her that evening.

"I wasn't finished with the evidence from her car," Sara protested, but Grissom shook his head.

"It can wait. O'Reilly is hoping that the apartment will give us a clue as to what happened to her."

"If she was killed in her car, her apartment won't tell us much." Sara let Grissom herd her towards the front door, arguing more for form's sake than anything else.

"She might have been abducted from there," Grissom pointed out. "O'Reilly's getting desperate. Her parents are vacationing in Africa and unreachable, and she doesn't have any other family. None of her friends know where she might be." He pushed open the front door and held it for her to pass through. "Do you want to drive?"

She blinked, surprised, and took the keys he handed her. "Sure."

The apartment was a one-bedroom, about the same size as David's, but very different. Privately Sara thought that it looked like an explosion in a shag factory, but she kept her opinions to herself; Methody apparently went in for the trendy fuzzy fabrics and bright colors. Everything seemed to be cushioned.

This time she took the bedroom and the bathroom, in the unspoken consensus that she and Grissom still occasionally shared. The bedroom was the sort of place that made Sara itch - ultra-feminine decor, with the tastes of someone who was not long out of adolescence. _There's nothing wrong with celebrating one's gender, but doing it with hot pink stuffed animals and a Tinkerbell bedspread - _Sara shook her head. Even Methody's laptop was pink.

She bagged it, and went on searching, sorting through tangles of jewelry in the vanity and makeup containers on its top. The closet was full of clothes that told Sara that Methody was short and slender, and liked showing off her midriff; the mirror on the vanity was thick-edged with photos, some of which included 'Natha Phillips. Sara pulled one down for a closer look. The two young women were grinning at the camera, arms slung around each others' shoulders, and Sara's mouth tightened sadly at the obvious, deep-set camaraderie between the two. "Why'd you do it, Susan?" she murmured to the photo, then replaced it.

There were a few paperback romances scattered around the bedroom, but Sara suspected that Methody had spent more of her leisure time watching the small, pink TV that was perched at just the right angle to be seen from the bed. Sara pushed aside three sham pillows in nubby velvet and tossed back the rumpled covers, finding evidence of sexual activity, and hairs that she guessed belonged to Methody and possibly Abel.

The space beneath the bed was filled with sweater boxes. Sara found that they contained mostly more clothes, mainly summer outfits, but at the bottom of one she uncovered a man's cable-knit sweater in a deep green. It smelled faintly of cologne, and she frowned. All the other clothing had been put into storage clean. Assuming this belonged to Methody—and it was far too large to be anything but an appropriation from a male friend or boyfriend—why hadn't it been washed first?

On impulse, she bagged it, adding it to the sheets, the laptop, and an array of CD-ROMs.

The bathroom was cluttered with brushes and bottles and more makeup. Sara was collecting a toothbrush for a DNA sample when Grissom cleared his throat in the doorway. "Anything interesting?"

Sara met his eyes in the mirror. "Nothing overt, though the laptop may have more information. There's something missing, though."

"Oh?" Grissom raised his brows.

"No birth control." Sara gestured around the bathroom. "No pills, no patches, no condoms, no diaphragm. Nothing."

"She may have run out. Or used an alternative method."

"True. Or it could have been in her purse. But it still seems kind of strange. Most women I know who are sexually active keep a backup on hand, just in case." It had always intrigued her, on some level, how she and Grissom could calmly discuss subjects that would have most people blushing or laughing, as long as they were job-related. "Any signs of a struggle?" She hadn't seen any when they'd come in, but she'd only given the living room a once-over.

"None. Miss Methody left a cereal bowl in the sink, but that was all." Grissom shifted, glancing at his watch. "Are you almost through?"

Sara labeled the toothbrush. "I am now."

"Let's go get some lunch before we head back to the lab, then. I'm hungry." Grissom turned away, apparently not noticing Sara's wide-eyed surprise. When she didn't move, a mock-impatient "Come on, Sidle," drifted back down the hallway.

_I'm going to kill him._

**xxxx**

She almost protested when Grissom directed her to turn off at a Thai takeout between Methody's place and the lab. Almost.

But they had every right to take a lunch break. And maybe Grissom really was hungry. And if she made too much of a fuss, he might take it personally, and she absolutely didn't want him to know that he was affecting her that much. _Professional, Sidle, remember? _

So she parked the SUV, and they went inside. Sara placed her order first, and Grissom stirred next to her, but said nothing, waiting until she paid to order his own. They took one of the three tiny tables and settled down to wait for their food.

"Is it all right if we eat here?" Grissom asked casually. Sara waited for him to give some sort of reason, but he didn't.

"Sure," she said at last. "If we take it back Greg'll try to steal some of my noodles anyway."

Grissom made an agreeing noise, and they sat for a little while in silence. He seemed completely relaxed, but Sara found the situation peculiar. It had been a very long time since they'd shared a meal together, particularly alone, and she had to fight discomfort. _Oh, relax. He's just as likely to do this with anyone else. _

When their orders were called, Grissom murmured "I'll get it," and rose before she could. Returning with the bags, he unpacked them with swift efficiency, parceling out chopsticks and napkins.

The food was surprisingly good for takeout; Sara had enjoyed it before, but didn't often get it since she didn't live in the restaurant's delivery area and the lab was just outside it. Sara found she was hungry too, and made serious inroads on her pad thai, shaking her head when Grissom offered her a share of his food but holding out her own carton in inquiry. He took a small helping, but she still had plenty left over when she was full.

She packed up her leftovers as Grissom finished his meal, and folded her arms on the table. "What are you thinking?" Grissom asked as he closed his container.

"Susan and Abel," she replied, a little absently. "Did they have a relationship behind 'Natha's back, or was it a one-time thing with really bad timing?"

"Stress can do strange things to people," Grissom commented. "A last-minute indiscretion between a bride or groom and a member of the wedding party is somewhat common. Up to and including right before the ceremony."

Sara grimaced in distaste. "That would ruin the big day, big time."

Grissom stuffed his container back into the paper bag it had come in. "When I was working as a coroner, we once had a groom and a bridesmaid come in frozen to death."

"Frozen? How'd that happen?" Sara was intrigued.

"They were found in the walk-in freezer in the kitchen at the reception site. Turns out the bride went looking for her new husband and found the two of them together. Don't ask me why they picked the freezer," he added at her incredulous look. "I don't know, and they were beyond telling."

"So she locked them in?"

"And stormed off in tears. By the time she was tracked down, she was very drunk, and no one found the others until it was too late."

She shivered. "I don't understand how people can be in a serious relationship and cheat on each other."

Grissom tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. "Temptation...jealousy...boredom..."

"If you're married, you should try to work it out, Grissom. Running around on your spouse doesn't solve anything." He arched a brow, and she knew that he too was reminded of the swingers they'd investigated not too long before. "I still don't think they were happy."

"Is it cheating if you agree to it together?" he asked, apparently considering the question rhetorical. "Ready to go?"

"Sure." Sara rose and gathered her trash and leftovers.

"Don't leave that in the breakroom fridge until it evolves intelligence, please," Grissom said, holding the door open for her and nodding at her bag of food.

"That was Nick, not me," she said automatically, then glared at him in mingled amusement and outrage. "And you're one to talk!"

"I haven't put an experiment in that fridge since I got the small one for my office," he returned, unperturbed.

She snorted, just as her cellphone beeped. Flipping it open, she checked the number. "Oh, it's Anna Mugumbe. Probably about the Schnitzel case."

"Keys," Grissom said, and she tossed him the jingly handful even as she raised the phone to her ear. The attorney never called them idly, and when she did it usually meant a long conversation; Mugumbe was thorough. The nightshift CSIs, on the whole, liked her—she asked intelligent questions and didn't expect the impossible from their findings.

Grissom unlocked the SUV and they climbed in. Sara fastened her seatbelt, listening to Mugumbe's explanation, and then snapped her fingers at Grissom, pointing to his seatbelt; he tended to forget it. His mouth quirked, but he strapped himself in before starting the engine.

Distracted by the phone call, Sara didn't realize where they were going until she cut the connection and looked around. "What are we doing here?"

"I want ice cream," Grissom said, parking the SUV in the lot in front of a small sweets shop. "What flavor do you want?"

Sara squinted at him, trying to figure out what on earth he was doing. "Grissom, we're going to be late getting back."

He simply arched a brow at her. "What flavor?"

"Oh, for...mint chip." She reached for her wallet, but he was out of the SUV before she even got it out of her back pocket. She sighed in frustration, knowing that if he hadn't waited for the money there was no way he would accept it from her upon returning. _But he's not getting away with this. Not after all this time. _

Looking around the vehicle, she saw no good place to stash the money so he would find it later; there was no guarantee that he would be the next person to drive it, and he was wearing his jacket, so she couldn't hide it in his pocket. Then she spotted his kit.

_Oh, he'll kill **me **for that. _She could feel the smirk forming. _But it'll be so worth it. _And it wasn't like he was at the start of shift, with a pristine case and sterilized equipment.

Sara glanced at the store and saw Grissom through the window; he was speaking to the boy at the counter. Leaning over into the back seat, she popped the latches on Grissom's case and laid four one-dollar bills in the top tray, then shut it again. Then she settled back to wait.

**xxxx**

Mia found her not long after they got back to the lab. "I have the results from your car samples," the tech said, her manner more formal than usual.

Sara took the sheaf of printouts. "What have we got?"

"The secretions in the back seat were a match to Corey Abel and Susan Methody," Mia reported calmly. "The blood in the trunk is Abel's. The hairs on the passenger side came from Abel and Methody; the hairs on the driver's side belong to Methody, Abel, and David Phillips."

Sara looked up bleakly, and saw the reserved sympathy in Mia's eyes. "And the blood on the seat?" Sara asked, dreading the answer.

"Susan Methody."

Sara closed her eyes briefly, feeling a muscle flex in her jaw. "Thank you, Mia."

When she opened them, the tech only nodded, and left her.

Sara exhaled, then reluctantly went in search of Grissom.

**See Chapter 4**


	4. 4

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom took one last tug on his milkshake and tossed the cup into the garbage can without looking away from the requisition form in front of him. _I need a secretary. But I don't think there's a box on this thing to requisition one. _

He licked his lips absently, and the flavor of strawberry made him smile a little. _That was__...fun. _It had been a long time since he'd really spent much time with Sara, and while he knew his behavior was puzzling her, he wasn't quite ready to come out and say anything. It was too soon. Better to demonstrate in small ways first.

He couldn't pin down the moment when he'd decided to take Sara up on her long-thrown gauntlet; he'd only realized the decision had been made when he found himself thinking of ways to please her. The loss of half his team to the swing shift had derailed his plans, but only temporarily.

The question, of course, was whether she was still interested. There were nights when he wasn't sure she even wanted to have anything to do with him at all, though the urgency of the Abel case seemed to have brought them a little closer.

And he'd gotten away with buying the independent Ms. Sidle ice cream. Given her reaction to his suggestion at Susan Methody's apartment, he hadn't dared offer to pay for lunch, but her distraction with the phone call had given him an opportunity. He smiled a little more, remembering the mild bliss on her face and the smear of cream on her upper lip as she had devoured her cone.

Then he glanced back down at the form, and shoved it aside. Now that he had finished his dessert, he could restock his kit, in case he got called out again that night. He had a backup--of course--but he preferred to use his main one, and he would have to clean and restock at some point anyway.

Grissom set out the disinfectants and wipes he would need, and bent over to pop open his case, only to be confronted with the sight of four dollars on the top tray. Apparently he _hadn't _gotten away with it.

Outrage and amusement mingled. _Well, Ms. Sidle. That's a challenge if I've ever seen one. _

At that very moment, she appeared in his doorway, but one look at her face and his humor dropped away. "Sara?"

She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. "Mia just gave me the results from the car."

Grissom straightened. "And?"

For answer, she handed him the printouts and sat down. He paged through them, absorbing the results with a speed stemming from long practice, and felt his dismay increase by an order of magnitude. When he set them down, Sara was watching him, her face closed with the haughty look she got when she was upset and concealing it.

Grissom pushed his fingers under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "You processed the car, Sara. Lay it out for me."

Her voice was tightly controlled. "The evidence suggests that Susan Methody was attacked, probably prior to being placed in her car due to the lack of spatter outside the seat. She was driven somewhere and dumped, and her car was abandoned on I-15. The evidence also strongly suggests that Corey Abel's body was transported in the trunk prior to dumping."

She didn't have to name David as the possible perpetrator; his name hung between them on the hairs found in the car.

"Does he have an alibi for Abel's TOD?" Sara asked finally. Grissom shook his head.

"It was his night off. He says he was asleep." Asleep in his solo apartment, with no one to corroborate his story.

"It's circumstantial, Grissom," Sara said gently, which surprised him. He thought he would have to be the one to remind her. But when he followed her gaze to his desktop, he realized she was looking at his hand, which was clenched tightly around a pen.

With an effort, he relaxed his grip. "Damningly circumstantial, though."

Sara shrugged and rose, leaning over to pick up the printouts. "You're always telling us to trust the evidence. This isn't enough to prove anything yet."

"We need more," Grissom agreed. "Look, I promised to update Albert unofficially. What's your next stop?"

"Fingerprinting, and then A/V to talk to Archie about Methody's laptop," Sara replied.

"Okay." He stood himself. "Page me if anything turns up."

She gave him half a salute with the papers, and left.

Grissom made his way slowly to the morgue, grappling with the new information. They were both right; the evidence didn't prove anything beyond a doubt, but it did point a heavy finger in David's direction. But Grissom, who had seen brothers betray each other and children kill, was finding something in him rebelling at the thought of David capable of one and possibly two murders.

The morgue was empty; Grissom pulled out Robbins' desk chair and sat in it, resting his elbows on his knees and arranging the evidence in his mind. David had no alibi, and there were traces of him on the body and in the car used to transport the body. He had motive, opportunity, and the physical strength needed to carry out the murder and the dumping. _He'd do a better job than that, _part of Grissom pointed out logically. _He knows how to remove evidence. He wouldn't be that sloppy. _

_He could have panicked,_ another part countered ruthlessly. _His reaction to the sight of Abel's body could just as easily be guilt as horror. _

The morgue doors swung open and Robbins limped through, his face going from serene to worried as he spotted his visitor. Grissom stood, and steeled himself.

_I don't want to do this._

**xxxx**

Jacquie was bent over an array of prints when Sara joined her, but she straightened, looking somber. "Hey, Sara."

Sara was beginning to feel like an albatross–wherever she went, people stopped smiling. _It's the case. Everybody likes David. _"Hey. Got anything for me?"

Jacquie nodded, reaching for a file to one side. "Prints in the car match Susan Methody–-no surprise there-–and Corey Abel. There are a few others, but they don't match anything I have on file."

"So they're not David's." Sara felt a small surge of relief.

"Nope. A couple aren't complete enough to ID, but what detail there is doesn't match his prints." The print tech rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Been getting much flak yet?"

"Not yet," Sara answered wryly. The trouble with investigating anyone involved in law enforcement was that it tended to anger other members of that community; it was one of the reasons IAB was so despised. "It'll show, though."

"Well, you won't get any from me," Jacquie said, her voice firm. "David's a total sweetie and I think he's innocent, and you two are the best way to prove that."

Sara swallowed, touched by the woman's avowal. "Thanks, Jacquie," she said. "That means a lot."

Jacquie gave Sara her quirky grin. "So go get the real murderer."

Archie was waiting, his usual easy demeanor somewhat diminished, but he waved as Sara came in. "Turned up a lot of interesting stuff, but I'm not sure how much of it is relevant, and I'm not done yet," he said.

"Enlighten me." Sara pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. It was research she could easily have done herself, but between this case and the small solo cases she was working as well, she just hadn't had the time.

"For starters, there's a diary." Archie pulled up the window. "I didn't read all the entries, but I ran a search and Corey Abel's name turns up a lot-–mainly towards the end."

Sara leaned forward for a better look. "So were they..."

"Oh yeah." Archie's grin was mildly salacious. "Not for long, a couple of months maybe, but it looks like they did have a relationship going behind Maranatha's back."

"Ouch."

Archie nodded agreement. "Not cool. Anyway, the last entry is two days before Abel was killed."

Sara scanned the page quickly, but aside from some gushing about Abel and a few pitying remarks about 'Natha's unsuitability for him, there was nothing that related to the case. "Okay, what else?"

Archie grabbed the mouse. "Fortunately for us, Susan was methodical." His grin was openly wicked this time, and Sara snorted at the pun. "She kept copies of old e-mails and chats on her hard drive. I ran another keyword search, and it looks like before Susan got hooked on Abel, she was crushing on David."

"Whoa." Sara sat back. "Really."

"Absolutely. For a while there, she was writing him like three times a day."

"How often did he answer?" Sara asked.

Archie highlighted a number of files. "Maybe once or twice a week. And the letters don't sound like he was crushing back–-they read like a guy being polite to his kid sister's friend."

"Hm." Sara thought about it. The information was interesting, but it didn't give them any hints as to what exactly had happened to Methody or who had done it, and Sara had to acknowledge that a good prosecuting attorney could probably use the e-mail exchanges to hurt David in court. "Any sign of an ex-boyfriend or anything?"

"Nope. No nasty letters, nothing in the diary--but she might not have saved angry e-mails."

"Or written about a fight," Sara agreed. "What about Abel's machine?"

Archie gestured at the black desktop sitting on a nearby table. "It's all business. I mean, he has personal stuff like insurance and finances on there, but nothing _personal_, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Sara sighed. "Archie, thanks. If you turn anything else up, page me?"

"You bet." The tech was already getting absorbed in his work again. Sara rose and left him to it.

**xxxx**

The sound of his phone dragged Grissom from sleep, and he groped for the receiver. "What?" he said muzzily, squinting at the clock and seeing that it was barely noon.

"It's Brass," came the gravelly voice, rougher than usual. "You and Sara better get over here."

Grissom frowned, trying to reconcile Brass with a daytime call. "What's up?"

"I told you the D.A. was moving fast." There was no accusation in the captain's tone, but Grissom felt instantly guilty nonetheless. "He's issued a warrant for David."

Grissom's mind offered up a very bad word. He ignored it. "The evidence is circumstantial, Jim!"

"I know that and you know that, but the D.A.'s under pressure from Abel's uncle. They're hoping to squeeze a confession out of him. Do you want to call Sara, or do you want me to do it?"

"You do it," Grissom said, sitting up and reaching for his slacks. It wasn't what he'd prefer, but it would save time. "Tell her I'll meet her there."

"See you in a few," Brass said, and hung up.

He met them in the main corridor of the police station, still in his suit and looking as though he hadn't been to bed at all. "How'd you hear about this?" Grissom asked, and Brass shrugged.

"Police grapevine. Look around, Gil--even daytime isn't usually this busy."

Grissom took another look at the corridor, absently noting Sara doing the same next to him. Brass was right; the hallway was already crowded along the walls, and more people were slowly swelling the numbers. Grissom spotted Nick and Warrick standing together near the other end, looking grim and sleepy both, and a couple of the night shift techs.

He also noticed a few hostile looks directed at himself and Sara, but not many. For whatever reason, this quiet mob wasn't directing its anger at the CSIs on the case.

An absence struck him, and he turned to Brass. "Where's Albert?"

The captain shook his head. "I got his wife when I called. She asked me if there was anything he could do here, and when I said no, she told me she wasn't going to wake him up when he'd hardly gotten any sleep this week." He shrugged. "I bet he'll be pissed, but that's her problem."

Grissom didn't reply. He'd met Mrs. Robbins, and he didn't think it would be a problem for long.

Sara shifted nervously, her arms folded tightly. She hadn't been asleep when Brass called; she'd been lying in bed, trying futilely to recapture sleep. She'd picked up the phone eagerly, hoping for a break in the case.

Now she stood in the midst of a crowd, feeling chilled. If the D.A. was pushing this hard, with so little to go on, the interrogation would not be an easy one. Sara dreaded the thought of the ordeal her gentle friend was going to have to endure. A good interrogator could wind a subject in their own words until they didn't know which end was up.

The further doors swung open, and two cops came through, each with a hand resting on the elbow of a handcuffed David. It shocked Sara, to see the coroner so restrained; it seemed wrong, as though they were trying to pinion him.

David's wide eyes widened further at the sight of the crowded corridor. He looked as though he'd been woken from sleep and had dressed in a hurry, which was probably exactly what had happened. His hair was unbrushed and his socks didn't match, but his face was relatively calm.

The cops led him down the hallway, getting just enough room to clear the people on either side, and Sara's eyes prickled at the emotion filling the corridor. They weren't there to accuse.

They were there to support.

Eyes followed the trio as they made their slow way along; people nodded silently to David, and a few reached out to touch his back as he passed. The cops with him kept their faces impassive, not acknowledging the crowd, but they didn't hurry or try to interfere.

As they drew abreast of the CSIs, Sara forced herself to meet David's gaze. The complete lack of accusation there made her feel even guiltier, as though she had betrayed him by following the evidence. But he only smiled a little, looking from Sara to Grissom and back again, and then he was gone, through the door into the interrogation room.

Brass sighed, and with grave ceremony unlocked the door to the observation room, gesturing Grissom and Sara inside ahead of him. He locked it behind them, and they looked through the window to where one cop was removing David's cuffs. An older man, round and mild-looking, already stood next to the table, and Sara knew he was David's lawyer, summoned with near-arcane speed.

"That's Bhupendra Saxena," Grissom murmured with approval. "He's good."

"He'd better be," Brass countered grimly. "This'll be by-the-book, but it's going down hard."

On the other side of the glass, David was taking a seat next to his lawyer. Sara stepped closer to the glass, hearing the crackle as Brass turned on the speaker, and sensed the two men approach as they flanked her to wait.

"What happened to the backlash?" Sara muttered, eyes on David. "I was expecting most of them to be pissed at us."

Brass chuckled a little, a sound so unexpected that both Sara and Grissom turned to look at him. "Your reputation precedes you," he said. "There's a few malcontents out there, sure, but scuttlebutt is that David's innocent and that he couldn't have better investigators. They have faith in you, guys."

Unexpected. _Unprecedented._ Sara and Grissom exchanged surprised glances. "I hope that faith holds," Grissom murmured, but before Sara could answer, the interrogation room door opened again and O'Reilly and the D.A. came in.

District Attorney Wannemacher was known to be ambitious, clever, and very, very good at his work. The CSIs as a whole tended to regard such political appointees as passing nuisances; they would arrive, demand the impossible for a while, and then move on to bigger things, to be replaced by someone similar in an uneasy symbiosis.

Now, however, the pattern was warping, and distaste was turning to active fear and anger. Sara believed that David was telling the truth when he said that he was innocent, but 'Natha had no alibi and her father had only his wife's word that he was home; the CSIs had turned up nothing so far to prove or disprove either statement. A chill settled in Sara's stomach. _What if 'Natha did do it? Would David confess to protect her? _

She didn't know 'Natha at all to say one way or the other, but she did know David.

"_She's my best friend. I have to be there for her."_

He just might.

**xxxx**

The interrogation was about what Grissom expected--loud and theatrical, with a fair amount of unvoiced threat and the offer of a deal should David confess right then. He was afraid that the meek coroner might break down under the expert accusation of the D.A. and O'Reilly's pressure; the detective, though obviously hating it, was doing his job and asking questions with heavy menace.

But David surprised Grissom. The younger man's shyness apparently hid a strong will; he flushed and paled and sweated visibly, but he lost neither his temper nor his courage, answering questions in a calm voice and only moving to push up his sliding glasses. He refused to admit to the murder, and when the questioners got around to the possibility, he categorically denied that he was protecting anyone in refusing to speak. O'Reilly scowled and rumbled, Wannemacher paced and shouted, but David kept his chin up and kept saying he knew nothing.

Whether it was true or not--and Grissom was investigator enough to admit the possibility that David was lying--Grissom had to admire his conviction.

It was when the D.A. started in on 'Natha that Grissom saw David's control start to waver. The insulting monologue was enough to make David flush again, and his fists clench where they rested on the table, but Sara showed more reaction, stepping forward as though she would reach through the glass and make Wannemacher sorry.

Grissom reached out without thinking about it and rested his palm lightly on the small of her back, hoping that the touch would calm her a little. Her flinch wasn't visible, though he felt her muscles jump slightly, and he expected her to pull away. Instead, she put one hand on the windowframe, eyes unmoving but a little of her tension easing.

The three of them held vigil for David as the interrogation stretched into one hour and then two. When it finally wound down, Wannemacher was getting hoarse, O'Reilly looked sick, and David looked...beaten, Grissom thought.

But he hadn't given in. The D.A. left the room with a sour expression, and Saxena leaned in close to David to talk to him.

Brass shut off the speaker with a snap. "That's that," he said, sounding tired. "Next step is an arraignment."

Sara's fingers were pressing so hard on the sill that her knuckles were white. "This is such a crock," she said in a low voice. Before Grissom could say anything, she whirled towards him, breaking their contact. "Don't tell me to be objective, Grissom. They don't have enough evidence against him to do this."

"I wasn't going to," he said mildly, which made her deflate a little. "I agree with you. Unfortunately, the system isn't perfect."

He held up one hand to stop her retort, ignoring Brass' snort. "We're just going to have to work harder."

The fury in Sara's eyes hardened into resolve. "Damn straight."

"If you two have finished your pep talk," Brass interjected dryly, "how about some breakfast on me? Even geniuses need to eat once in a while."

Grissom raised a brow, suddenly feeling mischievous. "Breakfast on you, Jim? Are you clean?"

Brass rolled his eyes, but smirked reluctantly at Sara's surprised chuckle. "Keep that up and you can buy your own pancakes. Come on."

With a last glance at David, still engrossed in conversation with his lawyer, they followed Brass out.

Breakfast ended up taking a long time; neither the CSIs nor the detective admitted it, but they weren't willing to go home and back to bed without news of some kind. They sat in Waffle World and talked about everything and nothing, avoiding the case like an elephant making a fourth at table, and drank more coffee than was good for them. Finally, almost two hours after they'd left the police station, Brass' cellphone rang.

He answered it, and the criminalists listened to his side of the conversation, which mostly consisted of agreeing grunts. After a moment he snapped it shut again. "Well, that's that. David's been arraigned for first-degree murder. His family's posting bail."

Sara hissed slightly, and Grissom frowned. "On that evidence? They're pushing things."

Brass shrugged, though his expression indicated that he too found the situation unpleasant. "I told you, Abel's uncle knows the D.A. They must have got a sympathetic judge."

Grissom sighed, feeling helpless against the political machine. Sara's fists were clenched. "That's ridiculous. It's all circumstantial."

"It's only arraignment," Grissom reminded her. "If they take the case to trial on what we have now, chances are that David will go free."

But her frown didn't abate, and Grissom knew why. Juries were capricious and the D.A. was an expert. It would be well within Wannemacher's capabilities to sway the jury to his point of view.

"Well, you guys aren't done yet," Brass pointed out, with a heartiness that was only slightly forced. "You'll find something to clear him."

"Find us Methody," Sara shot back, though her shoulders relaxed a trifle. Grissom said nothing, unwilling to upset her again, though he knew--as did she--that they could just as easily find evidence that would incriminate David further.

_Let's hope not._

**See Chapter 5**


	5. 5

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Catherine looked up at the knock on her office doorframe, and smiled, surprised. "Hey, Sara, c'mon in. You're in early."

Sara shrugged and took the chair opposite Catherine's desk, glad that the older woman seemed to be in a good mood. "I wanted to catch you - I have something I need you to take a look at."

Catherine made an interested noise, and Sara opened the envelope she carried, pulling out a handful of eight-by-ten photos. They were all of the blood spatter on the passenger seat of Susan Methody's car.

"Oh, this is weird," Catherine said, taking one for a closer look. Sara nodded, and spread the rest of them out on the desk.

"It is. I can't quite figure it out. The edges are blurred because of the fabric, but the pattern doesn't seem to match any assault I can think of."

Catherine looked at all the photos in turn. "That's because it probably doesn't." She glanced up at Sara, eyes bright, and the younger woman was reminded that while Catherine could be more abrasive than Grissom, she was also a good teacher. "It's the position that's fooling you - this part." She pointed to the pattern on the back of the seat.

Sara took the photo and squinted at it a little. "Okay, I'll admit it. I don't get it."

Catherine chuckled. "Never thought I'd hear _that._ Okay, okay," she added at Sara's mock glare. "It's a pour pattern. In my professional opinion, this splatter was staged."

Sara looked at the photo for a long moment, eyes widening slowly. "It wasn't an attack," she said softly.

"Not one that involved blood spatter, anyway," Catherine qualified. "See where this bit goes out?" She indicated a close-up of the seat. "It's smeared, as though whoever put it there used their fingers to spread it a little before it soaked into the fabric."

She leaned back in her chair. "It's more blood than comes from a cut finger, but it's not as much as it looks like - I'll bet that if you pulled up the fabric you'd find that there isn't much depth to the stain. Somebody with a strong stomach could harvest that much blood from their own body without much more than a dizzy spell."

"Susan Methody," Sara said, still softly, but feeling the anger growing. She kept it under tight control. That was a leap - it might be Methody's blood, but she had no proof that Methody had put it there, or even that she was still alive. But intuition was coming on strong, and intuition, properly harnessed, could be as useful a tool to a CSI as a microscope or an ALS.

"Thanks, Catherine," she added, collecting the photos. "I'll go take another look at the car seat."

"This is David's case, isn't it?" Catherine asked, her smile gone, and Sara nodded.

Catherine nodded back, an oddly respectful gesture. "I hope it helps, then. He's a good kid."

"Oh, it does." Sara gave her a feral grin and left for the impound lot. She didn't have solid proof yet, but it looked like someone was trying to misdirect the investigation. And...even David aside...Sara _hated_ that.

_Their mistake. _

Catherine was right. Sara made record time to the impound lot and had a blade out almost before she got the car door open. Four careful slices, and she was able to peel the fabric of the seat away from the foam rubber underneath. Just as the older woman had postulated, the depth of the stain was minimal; most of the blood had been absorbed by the fabric. _This isn't anywhere near enough for a fatal injury,_ Sara thought, savagely pleased. _And if it were a serious wound, Methody couldn't have been in the car for very long. Minutes only. _

_Not to mention the fingermarks. _

Sara collected further samples with extreme care. _I don't know if Methody is dead or alive, or who's behind this. _

_But I'm going to find out. _

**xxxx**

Grissom knocked on the door of the Phillips house, hoping guiltily that Sara would forgive him for not taking her along on this visit. He'd planned to, objectivity notwithstanding, but she'd been out of the lab when he looked for her and he didn't want to make the visit any later.

'Natha opened the door after a moment, smiling hesitantly as she recognized Grissom, and he blinked a little at her presence but realized that David's family had probably pulled together around him. "Doctor Grissom, hello. Come on in."

"Thank you, Miss Phillips." Grissom stepped inside the ranch-style house. It was neither new nor expensive, but the garden and lawn outside were well-kept, and it felt welcoming, like a family home should. 'Natha escorted him into a living room populated with comfortable-looking furniture; David was sitting on the couch, and looked up as Grissom came in. The coroner looked weary beyond belief, but he smiled nonetheless and stood.

"Hello, Grissom. What can we do for you?"

Grissom smiled at the younger man, taking the chair to which David pointed him and watching the coroner sit back down. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Are you certain you don't want your attorney present?"

David shrugged and patted the seat next to him; 'Natha sat down and leaned against him as though seeking comfort, and David's arm went around her shoulders. "I trust you."

Grissom sighed internally, his discomfort not alleviated, and took a moment to study the pair. David had been arraigned, barely, and released on bail late that day, and the stress had obviously taken a toll. His eyes were puffy and his mouth had new grooves; 'Natha looked pale and vulnerable.

"I have a few questions about your interactions with Susan Methody," Grissom addressed them both. "Did either of you ever drive her vehicle?"

'Natha shook her head. "I can't drive a stick shift."

"But you rode in it."

The young woman shrugged. "Sure. We'd take her car or mine somewhere, whichever was easiest."

Grissom nodded. "What about you, David?"

"I've never been in Susan's car at all." David frowned a little, obviously trying to follow Grissom's line of reasoning but knowing better than to ask.

The CSI cocked his head. "Are you positive?"

"Absolutely." David's voice was earnest.

"Did the two of you ever spend time alone together?" Grissom was thinking of Susan's diary. She hadn't mentioned such a thing, but she hadn't written about every event in her life, either.

"No…" David looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "No, not on purpose, and I can't remember it ever happening by accident."

Grissom nodded again, appreciating David's thoroughness. Before he could ask another question, a faint voice floated from another room, calling 'Natha; it was, Grissom guessed, Mrs. Phillips. 'Natha jumped up with a murmured excuse, and disappeared in the direction of the call.

Grissom was pleased; it saved him from having to make both the Phillips children uncomfortable by asking her to leave. "David…were you aware that Susan had feelings for you at one time?"

David's ears went red, making him look young again. "Kind of," he admitted softly. "I mean, she used to have a crush on me, sure. But that was a while back." He shrugged a little. "I pretended not to notice, and after a while, she stopped."

Grissom regarded him. "Did your relationship change?"

"Sure. I guess she sort of grew up." David rubbed his eyes under his glasses with one hand. "She wasn't so, um, close, any more."

And, Grissom deduced, that had been a relief to a young man whose taste evidently ran to older, workaholic women rather than younger, carefree ones. He didn't blame David in the least.

David sighed, and let his hands drop into his lap, and it was in a way the most relaxed Grissom had ever seen him, away from the professional environment of the morgue. "I'm still having a hard time believing this whole thing," he said sadly.

"The accusations made against you?" Grissom prompted, following the habit of interrogation, but also personally curious.

"Well, that, yeah, but Corey, too." David's smile was sad as well. "I mean, I trusted him. I even helped him pick out 'Natha's engagement ring. When she told me what he'd done…" He shook his head. "It's a good thing he wasn't within arms' reach, that's all."

Grissom shot him a warning look, but held his peace; this wasn't an official visit, and at this point he honestly didn't believe that David was responsible for Abel's death or Methody's disappearance.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he added awkwardly. David gave him another smile, this one almost conspiratorial.

"Don't worry about it. I know you didn't have anything to do with that."

"Sara and I watched the interrogation," Grissom said, unwilling to keep that secret from the young coroner, and David only nodded again.

"I thought you did," he said simply.

They sat in silence for a little space of time, an oddly comfortable one. Grissom's interactions with David, unlike his with Robbins, had tended to be strictly business; for one thing, the younger man was in awe of Grissom, which in turn made the CSI uneasy. But outside the lab, their regular relationship set aside, it seemed that they could find a balance.

Then 'Natha slipped back into the room, glancing from one man to the other. "David, Mom wants to talk to you for a minute."

Both men rose at the same time, Grissom demurring David's apology. "I don't have any more questions, David, go ahead."

The coroner's mouth quirked, but he obeyed. 'Natha turned to Grissom. "Would you like some coffee before you go?" she asked.

It sounded good, but Grissom had work to do. "No; thank you, though."

'Natha simply nodded, and preceded him to the front door, opening it for him. "Do you really think David could do something like this?" she asked in a low voice.

"A colleague of mine has said more than once that anyone is capable of anything," Grissom answered her, trying to choose truth out of what he knew and what he believed. "But personally, no, I don't. However, my beliefs have nothing to do with it, Miss Phillips. I follow the evidence."

"That's what David said." 'Natha toyed with the end of her long braid, which lay over her shoulder. "He has faith in you, Doctor Grissom." And he could hear the warning implicit in her grave voice.

He cocked a brow at her. "Do you?"

She regarded him calmly. "I have faith in my brother."

Grissom pursed his lips, appreciating that. "Miss Phillips, do you have any idea where Susan Methody might be?"

She let the braid's end slide through her fingers and swing free. "I told the detective all the places we used to hang out. Do you think she's dead too?"

He replied honestly. "I don't know."

As he drove back to the lab, Grissom considered the Phillips siblings. As an only child, he'd often wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister. Their absolute, unhesitating loyalty to one another was both fascinating and foreign to him. Grissom knew very well that many siblings had no such bond, which made this one all the more impressive in his eyes.

_I wonder what it's like._

**xxxx**

Sara documented the car seat and its evidence to a fare-thee-well, and then went looking for Grissom to collate data, but he was nowhere to be found. So she pulled out the items collected from Methody's apartment to finish examining them. Within minutes she was absorbed.

She had just spread out the sheets to isolate the stains for swabbing when she looked up at a gentle "harrumph," and found Robbins standing by her table, leaning on his crutch and watching her. The normally cheerful and avuncular medical examiner looked the worse for wear; his eyes were shadowed and his shoulders slumped, and his usual small smile was absent. Robbins had children of his own, Sara knew, but she also figured that David had to be almost like a son to him, both a protégé and something of a friend. "Hey, Doc," she said gently.

One corner of his mouth turned up, and he limped a step closer. "Hey, Sara. Grissom's not in his office; is there any chance I could get an unofficial update from you?"

It was probably against department regulations in some way, but Sara couldn't care less. She gave him a wry look. "Aside from the fact that some of our evidence seems to have been planted, I'm not making a lot of progress." Sighing, she straightened her kinking back. "Something's fishy."

Robbins' brows went up. "How so?"

Sara blew out a breath. "I don't want to get your hopes up, but…intuitively? I think someone's trying to frame David." At his startled look, she held up a hand. "It means nothing unless I find evidence to support it. So far all I've got is a faked bloodstain and this junk." Sara waved at the accumulation of evidence. "Unfortunately, this case seems to hinge on finding Susan Methody. Alive…or dead."

Robbins nodded. "Frustrating in the extreme." His gaze traveled over the array of items. "I still love this table."

Sara blinked at that, a little confused. Robbins walked slowly down the table's length. "It never ceases to amaze me what you CSIs collect at scenes. The endless variety of effluvia…"

Sara snickered, and his smile reappeared. He gestured. "I mean, here you have pink satin sheets, a toothbrush, two steak knives, an appointment book, and one of David's sweaters. Items that presumably have no relation to…what is it?"

He was staring at her. Sara wasn't surprised; she felt like every cell of her body had suddenly gone on alert. She pointed. "That sweater belongs to _David?_ Are you sure?"

"Positive." With the skill of the knowledgeable, Robbins pulled a pen from his labcoat's breast pocket and used it to unfold the sweater and point to the inside nape. "His sister knits them for him. See, no label." He replaced the pen. "He used to wear this one whenever it rained, though I haven't seen him wear it lately."

Almost ceremonially, Sara removed her gloves and put on a fresh pair, then picked up the sweater with care. She hadn't bothered to think about the sweater's manufacture, assuming that the owner had removed the label for one reason or another. _But if this is David's…and Susan was keeping it…_ The possibilities exploded in her brain like a firework. The sweater - put away uncleaned - could very easily have collected hairs from David, though Sara had not found any when she'd examined it earlier. And the controlled environment of the plastic sweater box could have preserved the follicular tags on those hairs, assuming there were any.

Sara ran a gloved finger along the collar of the sweater, where small loops made regular bumps. _Oh yeah, these would snag hair pretty well._ She could see it in her mind's eye, David pulling off the sweater, the collar ruffling his hair as it slid over his head and collecting a few strands along the way.

Reaching for her ALS, Sara laid the sweater out flat and switched off the table's light. A soft chuckle reached her ears, and she let a tiny smile rise to her lips. "Hit the lights, would you, Doc?"

Robbins took a few uneven steps, and then the room was dim. Sara shone the light on the sweater, ignoring the stains that glowed on the sheets; those were secondary now.

And, like a hidden message, two smears appeared on the sweater's front, two side-by-side blotches. As though someone had blotted their teary eyes on the soft material, leaving behind proteins for Sara to find. She sighed with pleasure and picked up a swab, hardly registering the sound of Robbins departing.

She was just dropping off the samples with Mia when her phone went off, a text message bidding her to Grissom's office. He was stripping off his jacket as she came in, and he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "I've just been to see David," he began, hanging up the garment and giving Sara an apologetic shrug when she glared at him in surprise. "I tried to find you, but Greg said you were out."

She let out a breath and sat. "Yeah, I went over to the impound lot. Grissom, Catherine says the blood on Methody's car seat was staged."

Grissom lowered himself into his desk chair, face alight with interest. "Really. Do you have any idea who might have done it?"

"There's nothing to show who," she replied, deflating a little. "But I'm starting to think that Methody was trying to frame David. She had a sweater that belonged to him, and that could be where the hair came from that we found on Abel's collar." She lifted her hands in a frustrated gesture. "But that's not enough to counter the hairs in the car."

"Actually, it is," Grissom said, looking pleased. "Because David has never been in that car."

Sara's eyes widened. "So the hairs in there were planted too. All we need now is motive…and Methody herself."

"We may have motive too," Grissom replied, picking up a pen and fiddling with it absently. "Susan had a crush on David, but he didn't return it. In fact, he basically pretended that it didn't exist."

The words hung in the air between them for a peculiar weighty moment, as they both realized the similarities in their situations. Grissom's jaw shifted, and Sara glanced away, hunting frantically for something to say. "So a lover scorned?" she managed, trying to be professional.

"Possibly." Grissom set down the pen. "We have no compelling evidence either way, but it looks less and less as though David murdered Abel. The question is, did Methody do it?"

"Why would she?" Sara asked, trying to think the idea through. "She was sleeping with her best friend's fiancé, and got caught. The wedding was obviously off. Why kill him?"

Grissom's gaze went from avoiding to sharp. "Because he rejected her?"

That made sense. "Good enough to sleep with, but not to marry. Old story." Sara thought about it. "But it still comes down to the fact that we need to find her."

"That's up to the police," Grissom reminded her. "No one using her name has flown out of McCarran since the murder, or rented a car."

"According to O'Reilly, no one's used her credit cards either," Sara added. "She could have hitched a ride, or bought a bus ticket with cash, but if she's alive, Methody's probably still in town."

"A crime of passion," Grissom mused. "Probably not premeditated, but the murderer obviously didn't panic."

"And is Methody hiding because she's guilty, or because she's scared?" Sara sighed. "We don't have enough answers."

Grissom cocked his head. "We do have enough at this point to create reasonable doubt. David's off the hook for the moment."

"Great." It was heartfelt, but Sara still rolled her eyes. "Do you want to tell the D.A., or shall I?"

For a second she thought the imperturbable Gil Grissom was going to stick out his tongue at her, but he settled for a dry look. "I'm the lead, I'll do it. How about lunch?"

That threw her. "Sorry…lunch?"

"Food, Ms. Sidle. Customarily consumed in the middle of one's workday. My treat."

Sara shook her head, baffled. "Grissom - "

He threw her a challenging glance. "I still owe you for that stunt with my kit."

When he put it that way, it almost made sense. "I - I need to get my jacket."

Grissom stood, and grabbed his. "Here, you can wear mine." He tossed it to her, and she caught it automatically, still amazed. "Come on, let's go before something else comes in."

Sara knew there were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't, but she couldn't remember any of them at the moment. She stood up, and let him guide her out the door, wondering when she'd tripped and fallen into an alternate universe.

**See Chapter 6**


	6. 6

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Grissom was all but holding his breath as they walked down the street towards the twenty-four hour diner. His offer of lunch had been an impulse, and he had more than half-expected Sara to refuse, especially after their awkward moment earlier. The fact that she had accepted elated him, even if she seemed confused. Sooner or later, he figured, she would skewer him with those eyes and demand an explanation.

_I think…for once…I will have one._

The diner wasn't crowded; they slid into a booth and ordered as soon as the server showed up, going for old favorites. Before Sara could say anything, Grissom held up a finger and pulled out his cellphone. "I need to call Wannemacher."

"He'll be asleep," Sara protested, but she was starting to grin. Grissom winked, and punched in the number.

"Exactly." He waited through two-and-a-half rings, holding the phone slightly away from his ear so that Sara could catch the sleepy "Hello?"

"District Attorney Wannemacher, this is Gil Grissom from the Crime Lab," Grissom said, using his best and most cheerful professional tone. "We have some updates on the Abel case."

"Oh?" Grissom could all but hear the D.A.'s ears pricking up. "Such as?"

"The evidence indicates that David Phillips is being framed for Abel's murder," Grissom informed him.

"What? By whom?"

"We're not sure. Possibly Susan Methody." Grissom felt a smirk coming on at the indignation in the man's voice.

"But Methody's dead."

"There's no evidence of that. The bloodstain in her car was staged."

An irritated growl reached Grissom's ear. "Have you _found_ her?"

"That's the job of the police," Grissom pointed out politely. "However, we haven't turned up anything new to tell us where she might be."

"And?"

"And that's all."

"You woke me up just to tell me that?" Grissom wasn't sure, but there was possibly some gnashing of teeth going on.

"You did say you wanted to be kept abreast of developments." Grissom kept his voice smooth, though it was hard with Sara holding her hands over her mouth across from him and making muffled snickering noises.

"Next time just fax me, Dr. Grissom." The connection clicked off sharply, and Grissom closed his phone, feeling vindicated.

Sara let a laugh out. "That was _evil,_ Grissom!"

He shrugged. "You don't think he deserved it?"

She lifted both hands in quick denial. "I didn't say that." Her face sobered. "It probably wasn't smart, though. Politically, I mean."

Grissom put his phone away. "I don't really care, Sara. Wannemacher was willing to move ahead of the evidence to satisfy his political ally, and as a consequence he basically harassed an innocent man. David could legitimately register a complaint against the department. If that's being political, I'd rather not."

The server came by and poured them coffee. Sara doctored hers, then lifted her cup in both hands, resting her elbows on the table and regarding him with a steady gaze. "That's one of the things I admire about you," she said at last. "Your integrity isn't for sale."

Her frankness left him without words, and Grissom sipped at his own cup to cover it. A hint of pink was dusting Sara's cheeks now, and he swallowed and found an answer. "Thank you. That, uh, means a lot."

She relaxed a little, drinking again and glancing out the window. He took the moment to study her, thinking of a hundred small moments where her statement didn't apply; it seemed to him that _she_ was the one whose integrity was without question. She had done hard and painful things for what she believed in; she had suffered. _And probably always will,_ he thought. Sara would always choose that thornier path.

The thing was, he hated to see her in pain. In fact, it had sometimes driven him away from her, when he couldn't stand to watch and do nothing, and when no words within the constraints of their present relationship would serve to ease her. Even if he could think of them.

_But if things were different..._ If they were different, he could offer her comfort without limits. He could ease that pain, share it, make it less. He wouldn't have to worry so much.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he was tired of limits.

_Maybe I don't have to wait for her to ask._

She was still looking out the window, her eyes a little unfocused, her face a little tired. She'd been working furiously on the Abel case, Grissom knew, but he'd had neither the will nor the desire to stop her; despite his own statement, some cases _were _special. And besides, it was hard to convince her to ease up when he himself was working just as hard.

Grissom took a breath, and set down his cup. The movement caught her attention, and Sara turned back, putting her own down and reaching idly for a spoon to stir it with. But the strength of his gaze seemed to penetrate, and she looked up again, puzzled. "What?"

Grissom shifted his jaw. "Sara, I..." He hesitated.

Her mouth and her expression both closed, sealing down into cool neutrality. "Is this going to be a lecture, Grissom? Because if it is, I think the lab's a better place for it."

That was _not_ what he intended. Had he really hurt her that badly, that all she was expecting was a scolding? "No. I'm not going to lecture you."

She arched a brow and set the spoon aside. "Okay, then why are you looking at me like that?"

When he was growing up, the most intimate and personal conversations of Grissom's life had been conducted in sign rather than words. It had always been easier to speak his heart through gestures than through his lips, and since the habit had continued into adulthood, he'd never broken it. At the moment, he couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound abrupt or awkward, and he wasn't sure he could make his voice give the right inflections anyway. So he fell back on the familiarity of action, reaching across the table to take her hand in his.

Sara twitched with surprise, but didn't pull back as Grissom wrapped his fingers around hers. With a surge of confidence whose source he didn't know, he met her eyes again. "Because I...I want another chance, Sara."

It wasn't often at all that one got to see Sara Sidle looking astonished, and he tucked the sight away to remember later. Her surprise didn't last long; it melted into disbelief and a bit of bitterness. Her hand tensed, but he tightened his grip a little, unwilling to let her just pull away. "With me, you mean?" she asked, her voice low and skeptical.

Grissom nodded. She was exerting the slightest bit of pull, as though daring him to let her hand go. He didn't.

"What makes you think you deserve one?"

He let a brow go up. "I'm not sure I ever did. But this isn't about deserving, Sara, it's about asking. I'm asking for another chance."

Audacity seemed to do the trick; her eyes widened with outrage, but a small smile fought its way onto her face as well. "Spell it out for me, Griss. What exactly do you want? 'Cause I'm really tired of ambiguity."

Grissom licked his lips, reminding himself that none of the disasters he'd anticipated in this conversation had yet occurred. "I want to see if our friendship can develop into something more. I want to...have the right to worry about you, to make sure you get enough sleep." He slid his thumb over the pulse of her wrist, then gave into impulse and lifted her palm so he could press his lips to it for a moment. "I want to do that to you whenever I like." He cocked his head. "And wherever you like."

This time her face flushed all over, down her long throat, and he could feel that pulse running faster. "Um..." Sara swallowed. "Uh, Grissom..."

He just shrugged a little, letting his words lie between them. He'd run out, anyway.

"I need time to think about this," Sara said quickly, and his heart quailed, but then rallied when her fingers returned the pressure of his grip. "It's kind of, um, sudden."

"For me, too," he admitted, and she chuckled at that, and some of the tension evaporated. "Sara, I know we're not even the best of friends anymore, and a lot of that's my fault."

She didn't dispute his statement, only tilted her own head for a moment. "Trying to be friends while ignoring...this..." and she mimicked his gesture of two years previous, "hasn't worked too well."

Grissom nodded, letting his fingers tighten a little more on hers. "Combining the two might be interesting, though."

This time Sara laughed outright. "That's an understatement."

At that moment, the server arrived with their plates, and Grissom let her hand go with some reluctance. He expected discomfited silence, but it just didn't happen. Sara picked up a sandwich half - grilled cheese and tomato - and nodded at her plate. "Want my pickle?"

Grissom reached over and snagged it. "I thought you liked dills."

"Too limp here." She bit into her sandwich with enthusiasm.

And that was that. They slid easily into conversation about ongoing and past cases, as though some spring of tension had been released, allowing them to be simpler with one another again. It wasn't gone entirely, but Grissom didn't feel as though they were walking a high wire of caution any longer.   
It was when they were walking silently back to the lab that Sara spoke. "Give me a few days to think about it, Grissom, okay?" Her glance was uncertain, almost shy. "It's not that I don't want to, but - "

"But you need time. I understand." The words tasted a little bitter, but it was only because he knew her caution was his fault.

She shrugged unhappily, her slenderness half-swallowed by his jacket. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Grissom stopped, and she did too, swinging around to face him. "Trust takes time." He reached out and gripped her arms gently just above the elbows, a nonthreatening gesture. "'A man who trusts can't be betrayed, only mistaken.' I don't want you to make a mistake, Sara. Take your time."

She let out a shaky breath, and he squeezed a little and let her go. "Who said that?" she asked. "Wilde?"

"Terry Nation, actually." Grissom put his hands in his pockets, and they returned to the lab.

**xxxx**

Two shifts passed; the Abel case came to a standstill as the last of the samples were processed but no new evidence was turned up. There was plenty to occupy the night shift, however.

David had not returned to work. When Sara saw the temporary diener on loan from dayshift still working in the morgue, she hunted up Robbins, finding him morosely going over budget sheets in the small back room he used as a storage and filing space.

"David's taking some leave time," Robbins replied to her concerned question. His expression was sour. "Those morons over at Administration were talking about keeping him on administrative leave until 'this gets straightened out' - " He gestured irritably.

"But it might not ever be, if nothing else turns up," Sara pointed out, distressed. Robbins snorted.

"Exactly, and that's what I told them. David says he'll take a few days, but if they don't get their heads out of their asses…" He didn't verbalize the threat, but Sara didn't doubt it. As the county's Chief Medical Officer, he could wield a considerable amount of power if he wanted. Sara suspected that because Robbins chose to work the night shift and remain relatively inconspicuous, notables such as the Sheriff tended to forget exactly what he could do.

"I'm sorry," she offered, feeling a little helpless at the lack of further evidence or leads. Robbins shook his head and sighed, and offered her a small smile.

"Not your fault. I know you and Gil are doing all you can."

Sara left him with a few more reassurances, still not happy about the situation but not knowing what else she could do. Her next stop was the police station for an interrogation; one of the suspects from her latest assault case had been located.

She nearly ran into O'Reilly in the hallway. "Hey! How's the search going?"

The detective frowned. "It's going. Not your problem."

Sara frowned right back. "Like hell!"

For a second they glowered at each other, and then O'Reilly exhaled heavily, running a hand over his short hair. "Sorry," he muttered.

Sara deflated, seeing the weariness etched into his face. "Me too. I'm just, you know, worried."

"Join the club," O'Reilly grunted; looking around, he put a big hand under her elbow and pulled her out of the hall and into one of the station's seating areas. "We're all pissed, Sidle. Phillips may be a ghoul but he's one of us."

Sara nodded, knowing that the nickname was mostly affectionate. "You've turned up nothing on Methody at all?"

The detective looked glum. "Not a thing. It's like she just vanished. No activity on her credit cards, not here or anywhere else."

"Maybe she hitched a ride," Sara said, without much hope. "It wouldn't be hard."

"Pretty little thing like that? Hell no," O'Reilly agreed. "We tried all her friends, but none of 'em admit to having seen her, and they all have alibis for the time she disappeared."

"So they might have funded her, but they didn't drive her out of town," Sara finished, and he nodded in turn.

"I hate to say it, Sidle, but we may be out of luck on this one."

Sara bit back an oath. If there had been more evidence to work on she would have run it into the ground, but she'd already been over everything a dozen times - phone lists, address book, and all - and there was simply no more information to be squeezed from them. Methody used her cellphone for most of her calls, and she seemed to have taken it with her. They didn't even know what company she used.

_I guess I'll just have to take one more look._ Her thought was stony with determination, but she gave O'Reilly a little smile. "Keep me posted, okay?"

He grunted again. "You bet."

With a sigh, she left for her interrogation.

When she got back to the lab, she passed Grissom as he was on his way out, and he merely nodded as he tugged on his jacket, obviously in a hurry. Sara waved back and went on to the evidence locker to pick up items for one of her current cases, but his image stuck in her mind - as it had for the past two nights.

She was coming to a belated appreciation of Grissom's dilemma, though she doubted her reasons for uncertainty were quite the same as his. _A year ago I would have jumped at his - offer, whatever. Six months ago I might have yelled at him and walked out. Now - _

Now, she didn't know what to do with the choice he'd dropped in her lap. She wasn't the same woman who had flirted with Grissom, nor the one who had mustered the courage to ask him out.

As she sorted through envelopes of evidence, the back of her mind kept going over the moments at the diner. The utter surprise and disbelief when he'd told her what he was thinking. The wrap of his fingers around hers - never a light thing - this time the move that convinced her he was speaking truth. The piercing, painful sweetness of his words, and the sudden heat that had flooded her when his mouth had touched her skin.

_I could tell him I can't be more than friends anymore._ Sara carefully cut open the red tape on one envelope and drew out the pocket flask within, and snorted to herself. _Like that'll work._ As she'd said herself, trying to ignore their attraction had never accomplished much. In fact, it had made things more difficult.

She dusted the flask for prints and lifted the results, considering possibilities. _There's no guarantee that we could even make a relationship work._ They were both workaholics, and while Sara wasn't too sure about Grissom's history, she herself hadn't had a lot of recent practice in being someone's significant other.

_We could try it, and it might fail. _In fact, it could fail catastrophically, leaving them burned and bitter and unable to stand the sight of each other. Or they could fail more gently, parting on better terms.

Sara rebagged and sealed the flask with unconscious expertise. _We might even be able to stay friends afterwards. _Unlikely, but a possibility. Passion might fade, but they had been good friends once, they could be again.

_Or...it might work._ And the thought sent a shiver over her, of incredible possibility.

Sara put the envelope down and picked up another one, feeling both delighted and a little bit scared. _If he's really ready to do this... _

…_Maybe I am too. _

**xxxx**

The sound of her phone pulled her from what was, for once, a fairly decent sleep, and she groaned as she reached out and snagged the receiver. "H'lo?"

Grissom's voice was disgustingly awake, but his words cleared the resentment as quickly as it formed. "O'Reilly just called. They found Methody."

Sara sat up straight, shocked alert. "Alive or dead?"

"Very much alive, according to O'Reilly. He's got her down at the station now, and our presence is requested."

She was already throwing off the covers with one hand and sliding out of bed. "I'll be out of the house in five."

"I'll pick you up. I'm almost at your place."

Sara blinked, taken aback, as she rummaged in her closet for clean slacks. "You are? What are you doing over here in the middle of the day?"

"Running an errand." A hum that she just then realized was a car engine shut off in the background. "I'm in your lot now."

"You - I'll be right down." Sara shut off the phone and tossed it on her bed, giving up arguing in favor of getting dressed, and dropped the question of Grissom's behavior for the moment. Methody was the key to this whole puzzle, and she wanted answers.

Grissom's Mercedes was parked right outside her building, and he leaned over to open the passenger door as she jogged out. Sara dropped into the seat and fastened the belt, and Grissom nodded at the center console. "Right one's yours."

There were two takeout cups of gourmet coffee sitting in the holder, and Sara shot him a wary look. "You stopped for coffee?"

He shrugged, putting his arm on the back of her seat as he looked behind to back out. "I was in line when I got the call. I just ordered two instead of one."

_Hm._ Sara picked up the cup nearest her and took a cautious sip; it was intense and sweet, the way she preferred. "Thanks."

Grissom put the car in gear and drove out of the lot. "You're welcome. And no tricks this time, Sidle."

It took her almost five seconds to figure out what he was talking about, and then she found herself laughing. "As long as I buy the next round."

The corner of his mouth tucked in, and he shot her a quick sly glance. "You can try."

**See Chapter 7**


	7. 7

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Note: Yes, it's that Terry "Exterminate!" Nation. grin The quote is from "Blake's 7". **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Brass met them at the station, looking slightly sleep-rumpled himself and surprisingly casual in ancient jeans and a t-shirt. Sara did a double take at the shirt, and read it out loud. "_History doesn't always repeat itself--sometimes it screams, WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN TO WHAT I'M SAYING? and lets fly with a club._ Cute, Brass."

The captain smirked at her. "That's me, the height of fashion." They were already walking quickly towards Interrogation, intent on seeing their quarry at last.

"How was she found?" Grissom asked at her elbow. Brass gave his characteristic snort.

"Believe it or not, Security at the Great Mohave Casino was about to throw her out for causing a disturbance when some bright lad recognized her face from the police bulletins. I'm thinking of offering him a job."

"What was she doing at the Great Mohave?" Grissom asked impatiently.

"Gambling." At their incredulous looks, Brass shrugged. "As far as we can tell, she's been playing either blackjack or five-card stud since Abel was murdered. She paid for her room with cash, and she's been winning just enough to keep it, until tonight."

"Only in Vegas," Sara muttered, and Brass nodded, opening the door to the same room from which they'd observed David's interrogation. "So what happened?"

Brass shrugged again. "Apparently, she had a little too much to drink and started yelling at a dealer."

Almost as one, they turned to look through the window. A small slender woman with trendy short hair sat at the table, arms folded and a stormy, almost petulant expression on her face.

"Voila," Brass said dryly. "Susan Methody."

She didn't look like she'd murdered someone, Sara reflected, but then murderers rarely did. She looked like someone impatient and put out. "Is she sober?"

"She is now," Brass replied. "She's been advised of her rights."

Sara glanced at Grissom. He was staring at Methody with the intensity that told her he was deep in thought. "Where's--"

Before she could finish the sentence, the door opened and a freshly shaved O'Reilly stuck his head in. "Good. You're here," he said flatly. "You guys want to triple-team her, or what?"

Grissom raised his brows at Sara. She gave him a hard smile, and he gestured at the door.

Methody looked up as the three of them filed into the interrogation room, but said nothing as O'Reilly and Sara sat down across from her and Grissom folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Her eyes were glittering with what Sara guessed to be anger, but she didn't blurt out a complaint. Sara appreciated the restraint. _Nobody ever said she was stupid._

Sara began; she hadn't done many interrogations with O'Reilly, but he was a professional and she did know his pattern. "Ms. Methody, we need to know where you were the night Corey Abel died."

For a moment the younger woman was silent, but finally she replied in a sullen voice. "I was out."

"After you slept with him, you mean," O'Reilly said. Methody shrugged.

"What time did you leave your apartment?" Sara asked.

"I dunno. Around midnight, I guess."

"That seems a little odd, leaving in the middle of the night," Sara pointed out, and Methody shrugged again.

"I couldn't sleep, so I drove around for a while."

The classic excuse--nearly impossible to either verify or refute. "Was Corey still at your apartment when you left?"

This brought a disdainful sniff. "He took off way before that. I figured he was going to try to fix things with Miss Goody Two-Shoes."

Methody's face was a study in contempt, but Sara almost thought she saw something underneath that, something more profound. _Reminds me of...grief._

"Did you and Corey hook up later that night?" O'Reilly looked almost bored, but Sara knew he was listening as carefully as Grissom was behind her.

"Didn't see him." A vague answer--and a flag to the questioners by its very lack of detail.

"When did you lose your car?" O'Reilly's gaze was chilly.

Methody's gaze flicked to the side, the first time she'd shown a sign of nervousness. "I dunno. I stopped for some coffee and when I came out it was gone."

"And you didn't report it stolen?" Sara asked, politely disbelieving.

"I was upset." Methody looked back to Sara, her eyes growing damp. "Corey and I...well, we'd had a fight. We did something kinda dumb, and he took off."

"So where did you go then?"

"To a friend's. She's on vacation now," Methody added hastily. "I crashed at her place for a couple of days, and then I heard Corey was dead, and I..." She sniffled again. "I kinda went a little crazy."

"So you have no idea who might have killed Corey." As Sara had hoped, this produced a reaction.

"Well..." Methody glanced away, as though reluctant to speak. "There was somebody..."

"Maranatha?" O'Reilly suggested. "A woman scorned and all that."

But Methody's face wrinkled in what looked like genuine shock. "No way. 'Natha would never hurt somebody. But--I heard David warn Corey once that if he hurt 'Natha, he would kill him."

The pronouns were a little confused, but her meaning was clear to Sara. _Bingo._ If Methody really had set David up to take the fall, it was all but inevitable that she would finger him.

Their suspect shifted impatiently. "Look, why are you keeping me here? You already arrested David."

"Keeping track of the news, are you?" O'Reilly said in a less than friendly tone. Behind him, Grissom spoke for the first time.

"We've uncovered new evidence that points in a different direction." He unfolded his arms and stepped a little closer to the table.

Methody's face was a study in mingled hope and apprehension, and Sara wondered sourly how the woman had managed to win at poker when everything showed up so well in her expression. "So why aren't you finding that person?"

Grissom ignored the question. "Ms. Methody, may I see your wrists, please?"

She looked baffled, but pushed up the sleeves of her thin sweater and held out her arms, palms down. Sara knew what Grissom was looking for; he was taking a gamble, but a calculated one.

Grissom came to the table and bent over Methody's arms, taking each of her small hands in gentle, impersonal fingers and turning them over. On the inside of her left wrist was a short, half-healed cut, running about an inch along one of the veins. "How'd you get this?" he asked.

Methody shrugged uncomfortably and pulled her hands away. "I don't remember."

"Really." Grissom looked supremely unimpressed. "It's right over your vein, and it's deep--you must have been bleeding." He glanced over at Sara, who rose and went over to the kit in the corner in the next step of their practiced dance. Popping open the latches, she extracted a digital camera and listened to Methody's voice.

"I dunno, I just looked down and there was blood all over the place." She sounded both petulant and slightly frightened.

"It's very precise for an accidental cut," Grissom said mildly. Sara straightened from her crouch and came back to the table. "Ms. Sidle's going to photograph your wrists."

Methody tucked her hands under her elbows, but Sara merely raised a brow and waited. Methody looked from face to closed face, and reluctantly, like a child about to be punished, she put her hands back on the table. Palm down.

Calmly, Sara leaned over and turned them palm-up, then took the photos. Grissom was being extra-circumspect; having another woman handle the camera eliminated even the faint possibility of a harassment counter-charge.

When she finished and returned to her seat, Grissom had already faded back into his corner, and O'Reilly was leaning in a little, projecting more menace. "Here's what we figure. You and Abel were sleeping together, and 'Natha caught you, so the wedding was off. But instead of being happy about that, Abel decides to chase 'Natha. You go after him, and when he turns you down, you get mad. So mad, you pick up a knife and stab him."

Methody stared at the detective as though hypnotized. Sara picked up the thread.

"There you are, with a dead body on your hands. But you're smart, aren't you, Susan? You watch TV, you know how we find evidence. So you decide to mislead us."

The young woman's eyes were huge, almost panicked, but she said nothing. Grissom spoke up, his tone almost friendly.

"You put Corey's body in the trunk of your car. That must have been quite a job, hmm? He's twice your size." Grissom came to stand by the table again. "And you went to your apartment to pick up a few things."

"Like David's sweater," Sara said quietly, and Methody started. "You probably knew David was off that night, and that he'd be home catching up on his sleep. It was easy, wasn't it?"

"You drove out to I-15 and dumped his body in the woods," Grissom went on. "And then you stopped your car on the shoulder of Exit 22B, and planted the evidence."

Sara folded her hands on the table. "I almost admire you, Susan. It takes a cool head to collect your own blood. But it wasn't enough."

Methody was shivering now, but still she said nothing. "Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts that night?" O'Reilly asked perfunctorily.

The young woman ignored him, instead returning Sara's gaze as though they were the only two in the room. "I'm pregnant," she said in a tiny voice. "It's Corey's baby."

O'Reilly sighed, a deep sound, and stood up. "Susan Methody, you're under arrest for the murder of Corey Abel." He rounded the table to cuff her, reciting her Miranda rights as he went, and she didn't protest, but Sara saw tears start running down her face as the door opened and a female officer came in to escort Methody out.

The detective sighed again as the door closed once more. "That's that," he said tiredly.

"She didn't confess to anything," Sara pointed out, more out of a sense of fairness than anything else.

Grissom shrugged. "Her lawyer will probably try for a plea."

"If we knew where Abel was killed..." Sara trailed off. O'Reilly grunted and stood.

"I'll leave that up to you geeks for now. I'm going to go home and get some sleep."

"Thanks, Ray," Sara called after him as he left, and he threw her a wave.

She stifled a yawn and looked up at Grissom, whose eyes were alight. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "there's still Methody's hotel room to process."

Sara's fatigue vanished, and she grinned. "So what are we waiting for?"

**xxxx**

The mid-range hotel room was a mess. Apparently Methody hadn't let Housekeeping in since she'd booked the room. Grissom surveyed the cluttered space, pleased; the messier a scene, the longer it took to process, generally--but the more likely they were to find evidence, also generally.

Sara took one look at the rumpled double bed, and her face scrunched up in disgust. "Dibs on the bathroom," she said hastily, and Grissom had to chuckle.

"Do you really think it's going to be any better in there?"

"Nonporous surfaces usually have fewer germs," she shot back, and vanished into the small space. Grissom took a long moment to look over the room, committing it to memory, then opened his kit and began.

He was examining the sheets when Sara's voice rang from the bathroom, echoing slightly. "Traces of blood in the sink drain."

Grissom wasn't entirely surprised. "Human?"

A pause, and then-- "Yep."

"Well, she could have cut herself," he said dryly, and heard Sara laugh.

And he smiled. That sound had been far too rare lately.

He hit his own jackpot not much later, finding a pair of sneakers shoved under the bed. They were dirty and well-worn, and when Grissom flipped them over, he found not one but three small chunks of stone lodged in the treads. He worked one free with a forceps and held it up to the light, smiling again in satisfaction.

"What've you got?" Sara said, emerging from the bathroom.

"Sandstone," he said. "Not at all common in this area."

"Hm." Sara clicked on her handlight and started examining the heap of clothing in one corner.

"Anything interesting?" Grissom asked after a moment.

She didn't look up. "A fork, a hairbrush, two scrunchies, three shirts, two pairs of bikini underwear, and a brochure titled _So You Want to Get a Tattoo_."

Grissom raised a thoughtful brow. "I wonder if she did."

"Good question." Sara held up a shirt to the light. "If she's at all responsible about her pregnancy, then probably not."

"Do you still have yours?"

He couldn't believe he'd just asked that question. Grissom closed his eyes briefly against the peculiar silence that filled the room.

"I'm surprised you remember," Sara said at last, her voice a little cool.

_I deserved that._ Grissom shrugged, not looking at her. "The kanji for 'fortitude' under your left shoulderblade. I only saw it because of that firehose."

A tinge of pink rose in her face again, and Grissom couldn't help remembering that day--the two of them and two other CSIs standing outside a burning office building in San Francisco, waiting to investigate possible arson, and one of the firemen losing control of a hose. Four of them had been drenched...and Sara had been wearing a light-colored tank top. The dry CSI had hastily stripped off his own shirt and offered it to her, but before she'd pulled it on, Grissom had noted the elegant image beneath the translucent fabric.

...Among other things.

"Yes, I still have it. Why shouldn't I?"

"No reason in particular." Grissom opened the top drawer of one of the bedside cabinets, finding only a room service menu and a Gideon Bible. "Speaking of which, Nick said you were able to identify the tattoo on the arm of the inmate of the women's prison last year."

"He said that?" Her voice sounded slightly…off, and he couldn't figure out why. He opened the bottom drawer; a phone book lay within.

"That surprises you?"

Sara didn't answer, instead moving to the suitcase lying open on the floor. Grissom sighed inwardly; he hadn't meant to make her withdraw.

"I recognized it," she said abruptly, surprising him, and when he turned to look at her she was examining a pair of jeans.

"You did?" He mentally marked the cabinet and lamp as a place to dust for prints later, and rounded the bed to check the other side.

"Yeah." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her bite her lip. "My mother has one just like that."

_Oh._ Grissom considered and discarded a half-dozen responses, finally settling for a noncommittal "Hmm." She'd told him that her mother had gone to prison, during that anguished, cathartic afternoon, but she hadn't given him details.

The other two drawers were empty, unlike the silence that had settled in the room. After a while spent examining the contents of a jewelry pouch on the cabinet, Grissom looked up to see Sara watching him. Her expression mingled exasperation and amusement. "Go ahead and say it, Grissom."

He raised his brows. _She knows me too well. _"Say what?"

"Whatever it is you're thinking."

He felt his lips twitch, but he answered seriously. "Thank you."

Now she looked baffled. "For what?"

Grissom turned his eyes back to his work. "Trusting me."

This time the silence was a little more comfortable.

Grissom moved to the overflowing trash can, and had just found a man's wallet at the bottom when Sara spoke from where she crouched in front of the closet. "Griss, come take a look at this."

Grissom snapped a couple of photos of the wallet _in situ,_ then rose off of slightly protesting knees to join her. Sara, sorting through the heap of clothes on the closet's floor, had uncovered a woman's shirt stained with blood and gritty with sand.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he quoted, and Sara looked up at him over her shoulder with a smirk.

"How much do you want to bet this tests out as Abel's blood?" she asked, bagging the shirt expertly.

Grissom merely snorted at her and returned to his trash can. The wallet proved to contain Abel's license and credit cards, and a not inconsiderable amount of cash. He held it up to Sara, who nodded thoughtfully, and they finished processing the room with an ease that had long been absent from their interactions.

It was when he was driving them back to the lab that Grissom remembered a question he hadn't asked. "Do you think Susan Methody will be responsible about her pregnancy?"

Sara shrugged. "Dunno," she said, sounding resigned. "It would explain the lack of birth control, though."

"It had already failed her," Grissom agreed.

It was odd, this balance he was trying to walk. Grissom spent a large part of his life waiting, usually for the measured processing of one kind of evidence or another, and it had schooled his natural patience to near-inhuman capacity. But now he felt it fraying, and tried to pull its threads together.

Sara had asked for time, and he would give it to her. He'd put her through years of uncertainty; he could live with a few days.

Still, when they parked at the lab and went around the back of the SUV to unload their evidence bags, Grissom wanted very much to gently press her up against the vehicle and kiss the living daylights out of her. But that was an old fantasy--sharper now, but still something he was used to.

Sara's eyes were lit, and he knew she had every intention of working through the day on their evidence, probably hassling the dayshift techs. But there were shadows under those eyes, and he didn't like it. "I'll sign this stuff in. Go home."

She didn't like _that._ Her head came up and she stared at him indignantly. "But--"

"I want this handled carefully, Sara, and that means waiting for the nightshift people. Go home. We'll tackle it tonight."

Her expression softened. As he had thought it might, offering her a logical reason for his dictum worked better than a direct order. Besides, it was true as well; the pressure on David might be lessened, but he wasn't out of the woods yet, and the pressure on the CSIs was just as heavy as ever. He wanted their blood samples under Mia's eagle eye and the rocks in Hodges' capable, if supercilious, hands.

And he wanted Sara in bed resting. _My bed, by preference._

Grissom blinked at that thought and shoved it back down again. Now was not the time to let out his own personal wants, though the old beloved imagining of Sara's pale skin against his sheets had also sharpened recently.

"All right," Sara said, with enough mock reluctance to make him smile a little. "But you have to rest too, Grissom."

He opened his mouth to automatically deny it, and then saw the shyness she was trying to hide, and realized with an inner shock that by pushing her concern away all those years he had been telling her silently that he didn't want her to care about him, even though it wasn't true.

"I will," he said. "As soon as I have this stuff logged, I'm going home."

Sara nodded, apparently satisfied, and gave him an awkward wave before heading off towards her car. Grissom watched her go, and sighed.

**See Chapter 8**


	8. 8

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

"Red sandstone," Hodges said in his usual slightly bored tone. "Common to a number of places in Nevada, but not Las Vegas proper, unless your suspect was climbing around somebody's landscaping."

Grissom ignored his comment. "Can you tell me what location in particular?"

"Unfortunately, no." The tech shrugged. "There's nothing unique about the rock itself. The grit on the clothes was sand that matches the rock's composition, and probably came from the same place."

"All right, thank you." Grissom took the printout. Hodges hadn't really told him anything he didn't already know, but knowledge was one thing and expert documentation was another.

"Is Phillips really off the hook?" Hodges asked, sounding more curious than sympathetic. Grissom shot him an unfriendly look.

"We aren't through with the case yet."

The tech held up both hands defensively. "Just wondering."

Grissom chose not to ask why, instead leaving him behind. He met Sara coming out of Mia's domain.

"The blood on the clothes is Abel's," she said by way of greeting, handing him another printout. "What've you got?"

"Red sandstone. Location nonspecific," Grissom replied, guiding them both to his office and holding the door for her. "Let's go over this one more time."

"We have bloody clothes and Abel's wallet," Sara said, dropping into the chair in front of his desk. "And evidence that makes it look as though Methody transported Abel's body and tried to frame David for his murder and possibly her own."

Grissom sat down in his own chair. "But what are we still missing?"

Sara's mouth tightened, and he knew she had thought of it too. "Evidence that Methody actually killed Abel."

Grissom dropped the printouts on his desk. "All we can prove at this point is that she transported the body. Everything else is circumstantial." He sighed, and rubbed his hand over his beard. He wasn't looking forward to imparting the next bit of information. "Methody lawyered up."

Sara looked at him, brow furrowed. "So?"

"She's claiming that David murdered Abel and forced her to clean up after him."

Sara's jaw dropped. "You're kidding. Please tell me you're kidding."

Grissom shook his head. "I'm not. O'Reilly called this afternoon."

She swore. "That means--"

Grissom sighed again. "All the evidence has to be reconsidered. And David goes back up the suspect list."

"This is so wrong." Sara's fists were clenched.

"I know." Grissom felt helpless, which was not a sensation he liked at all. The evidence was ambiguous, and without more the case could come down to he said, she said--which depended far too much on emotion and the swaying of juries for Grissom's peace of mind. "We need to find where Abel was killed."

"And all we've got is red sandstone." Sara's eyes narrowed, and Grissom kept silent, not willing to interrupt her thought process. "How many places within driving distance of the city have red sandstone?"

Grissom called up the relevant map on his computer. Sara came around his desk to stand behind him and look at the monitor, and Grissom found himself a little too aware of her presence behind his shoulder. "It's found in this region." He pointed at an area northeast of the city. "And in various other spots." Bright patches indicated the rock types on the map.

"Hmm." Sara leaned over for a moment, staring at the display, and Grissom inhaled her scent and tried to remember that she was probably oblivious to his proximity. Then she straightened abruptly. "Do we have the list of the places where 'Natha and Susan would go to hang out?"

Grissom reached for a file and flipped through it, both relieved and a little disappointed that Sara was no longer sharing his personal space. "Here."

Sara skimmed down the handwritten list. "None of these places are even outside the city." Handing it back, she reached for her cellphone. "What's 'Natha's number?"

Grissom glanced automatically at the clock. "Sara, it's past midnight."

"So? Would you want to me to wait until morning, if it was your brother?"

_She has a point._ Grissom looked up the number in the file and recited it for her, then listened as she spoke into the phone. "Hi, 'Natha, it's Sara Sidle at the Crime Lab, sorry to call so late...no, really...yeah, thanks. Listen, did you and Corey have anyplace special that you would go to hang out, just the two of you?" She gestured at Grissom, and he pushed over a pen and paper. "Yeah, okay...uh-huh..." She scribbled. "Yeah, good. Okay, thanks, you've been a big help. We'll keep you posted. Sure, goodnight."

Sara snapped the phone shut. Grissom took the paper and squinted at it; even after so many years, Sara's handwriting was a problem for him when she was in a hurry. There were three names on the list, but he could only read the first, and he didn't think that there was any red sandstone at the local YMCA. "Translation, please?"

Her eyes were lit again, and he knew even before she spoke that they had a lead. "The YMCA, New York New York, and Valley of Fire State Park."

_Bingo._ Grissom felt the smile start, and didn't try to rein it in. "Where red sandstone is found in abundance."

**xxxx**

They had to wait until dawn, of course, and Sara thought that she might go crazy with impatience, despite the two burglaries that Grissom assigned her. But when the sun cleared the eastern horizon, they were just driving through the main entrance of the park, fifty miles outside the city and off of I-15. The sandstone formations ahead of them were impressive, but Sara had no eyes for them at the moment.

"'Natha said they used to go to Piano Rock, whatever that is," she said, glancing down at her notes.

"I know that one," Grissom said, braking the SUV to a stop and rolling down his window as a park ranger approached.

"You the Crime Lab folks?" she asked. "Central office said you'd be coming."

"Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle," he replied. "Can you tell me if there was any unusual activity here on the night of the fifteenth?"

The woman laughed, a dry sound. "Define 'unusual.' We had a bunch of partiers we had to run out--keggers aren't allowed--but other than that nothing out of the ordinary."

"No disturbances, nothing odd?" Grissom persisted, but she shook her head.

"This isn't a major camping time, Mr. Grissom. There were only two other groups with permits, and they were all quiet."

Sara met Grissom's eyes as he glanced over. No disturbances probably meant no witnesses, but it also gave them hope that their potential scene might yet be undisturbed.

The ranger escorted them, bumping along ahead in an SUV much more dust-streaked and battered than their own, and eventually they wound up parked next to one of the massive sandstone formations that made up the park. The wind-carved rock next to the formation looked more like a stylized tree to Sara than a piano, but she cared not at all as she and Grissom climbed out of their vehicle. She yanked a Crime Lab cap down over her hair to keep it out of her eyes in the morning breeze, and noted with secret delight that Grissom, too, was pulling one on. _It always makes him look so...cute._

The ranger didn't bother to get out of her vehicle. "Try not to damage anything if you can avoid it, please. Y'all need anything, just call the Visitor Center," she said casually, and waved before driving out of sight along the rough trail.

Piano Rock was tucked against the larger formation, creating a shadowed space between. Grissom and Sara approached carefully; there were no prints on the sandy ground, but given the timespan and the wind, Sara didn't expect any.

The area between the two rocks was lumpy, and yards across. The dark stain in the thick layer of sand was immediately visible, and Sara pulled out her camera. "Jackpot."

Grissom nodded. "Looks like it." He pointed to the wall of rock behind the formation, and got out his own camera. "Cast-off."

He turned his cap around so that he could get closer to the wall, and Sara smothered a sigh. _"Cute" doesn't even begin to cover **that.**_ She was tempted to take a photo of _him,_ but restrained herself.

Sara knelt next to the stain soaked into the sand and took samples, finding it to be human blood. There were animal tracks here in the sheltered space, mostly tiny ones, but she assumed that the doglike indentations were those of coyotes. _Probably attracted by the smell, but there's nothing to be scavenged here. Unfortunately. _No murder weapon presented itself to her searching eye, and she wondered dismally if some lucky canid had carried it off. "What do you think happened to his car? Methody couldn't have taken them both."

Grissom was taking measurements of the spatter, and didn't look around. "My guess is that she simply left in the parking lot with the keys in the ignition. It was probably gone by morning."

Sara got to her feet and looked around the dim half-cavern. A few small boulders poked out of the sand, and she made her way around the space, searching for anything that looked like a knife.

But the sand was bare. Sara felt frustration tightening in her throat. They had found what was almost certainly the murder scene, against the odds, and yet--

The light strengthened as the sun rose, and the slight shift in shadows made something catch her eye. Sara paced up to the wall of stone, now seeing a crack that had been invisible before. She clicked on her handlight and looked, wary of possible night denizens that might have chosen that spot to sleep.

A gleam of metal. She grinned. "Hey, Grissom!"

His voice came from right over her shoulder, and she almost jumped. "Find something?"

She'd been so distracted that she hadn't felt him approach, but now all her nerves were on alert to his warmth. She hid her reaction. "Take a look."

"Hmm." Sara reached for the object, but warm fingers wrapped around her wrist, making it tingle. "Wait."

She turned a little as he released her. "What? I don't think we can get a decent shot of it in there."

"I don't want you to get bitten," Grissom said absently, already moving away. He crouched next to his kit for a moment, then came back with a ruler, which he used to carefully probe the crack. His hat was still on backwards, and Sara wanted to lift a hand and pull the curls peeking out. Just a little tug.

Nothing appeared to be sharing the crevice with the object, and when Grissom stepped back Sara reached inside, trying not to catch her glove on the rock or cut herself on what she hoped was a blade.

What came into view was a small hunting knife, encrusted with dried blood, sand, and a few ants. Sara shook the ants off gently, and Grissom took a couple of photographs as she held it up like a prize; then she took a closer look. "Check this out."

Grissom bent over the knife. Incised on the pommel were the letters "CCA." "Initials," Sara commented; Abel's middle name was Christopher.

Grissom nodded, and held out an evidence bag; Sara placed the knife within, as carefully as possible. What they held could be the key to proving David innocent--or, said the dry and logical portion of Sara's mind, could prove Methody's allegations. _That's up to Jacquie._

Or, if the killer had been smart enough to wipe off the handle, it could prove nothing at all except that it was used to murder Abel. There was always that possibility.

Grissom sealed the bag, and passed it to Sara, almost in ritual, so that she could sign it. Without words--nothing seemed to need to be said--they checked the rest of the scene. There was no other evidence to be found besides the blood spatter, and they drove back in the same waiting silence.

Shift was long over by the time they got back to the lab, but Grissom had made a quiet phone call along the way, and Jacquie was waiting for them in the print lab, dressed casually under her lab coat but looking resolute. The dayshift print tech went on break without a protest as Sara turned over the knife, but as Jacquie dusted the knife handle with utmost care, Sara realized that people were gathering outside the room's windows, waiting.

The tech had just lifted the first print when Grissom joined them, having detoured by the DNA lab to drop off the blood samples. He joined Sara where she leaned against a counter, mimicking her posture of folded arms, and watched as Jacquie continued her careful routine of pressing down the print lifters and peeling them away.

If Jacquie was aware of her audience, she didn't show it. Setting the lifters in a row, she reached for her magnifier, then looked at the ten-card she had at the ready. She examined each lifted print in turn, her face showing only concentration; Sara noted that she went back and double-checked two of the prints before finally lifting her head. Her shoulders sagged--with relief.

"They're all Methody's," she reported quietly. "None of them are David's."

A murmur rose from the watching personnel, nothing so overt as a cheer, but the release of tension was palpable. Sara glanced over at Grissom, whose eyes were closed as he exhaled. Then he opened them again.

"Thank you, Jacquie," he said, equally quietly.

She nodded, and gestured at the knife. "You can see the pattern."

They could. Methody had gripped the handle in her fist to strike; two smudges near the end showed where she had picked it up afterwards, to hide it. Grissom pushed away from the counter.

"When you're through documenting, go ahead and clock back out, and be sure to put it in the overtime slot." He picked up the rebagged knife.

"Yes, boss." Jacquie began labeling the lifters, and Sara let out a long breath, suddenly feeling a little light-headed with the release of tension. "Gonna call Wannemacher?" she asked in a low voice as Grissom gestured her towards the door.

He nodded, looking as weary as she suddenly felt. "As soon as I have all the paperwork lined up." The hallway cleared as they left the room, people returning to their tasks, but Sara knew that the news was even now spreading throughout the lab. "You should go home."

"I can ride herd on the DNA tech," she offered, reaching for the knife; now that the prints were secured, it would be swabbed for blood.

Grissom let her take it, but shook his head. "I told them to hold the samples until Mia gets in tonight. There's no hurry, especially now."

Sara thought a moment, and glanced into a busy layout room as they passed it to check its clock. It was only three hours past the end of their shift. She took a deep breath. "Want to get breakfast? When you're done with the paperwork, I mean."

She half-expected him to refuse, she realized, despite his request for another chance. And she could tell that her question startled him. But he smiled, glancing over at her as they walked; a small and private expression. "I would love to."

Four short words, and they soothed, somewhat, the burn left by his refusal two years prior. "Okay." Sara slowed as they approached the door to the DNA lab. "Call me when you're through, then."

**xxxx**

He met her at the restaurant she'd chosen, a crepe place--a little more elegant than the diner, and good for breakfasts. Sara had gone home and showered, feeling an odd sort of anticipation building in her stomach, and waited for him outside the restaurant. She had her eyes closed and was enjoying the feel of the sun on her skin when she became aware that he was there.

Her slowly opening eyes found him standing in front of her, watching her with an expression she didn't recognize at first. The wistfulness she'd seen before; the hunger had never been so apparent.

It caught her by surprise, muted the greeting on her lips. Grissom's mouth quirked, and he tucked the emotions away. "Here."

Sara blinked, and looked down. He was holding out a slender bundle wrapped in crisp green paper. Puzzled, she took it.

She recognized the flowers as stargazer lilies, proud rose-dappled blooms nestled within the bundle. The scent rising from them was sweet and strong.

"My bona fides," Grissom said, half a question, and Sara realized abruptly how uncertain he must be feeling at that moment. A small part of her was pettishly pleased at his discomfort, but a much larger part was both surprised and delighted at the idea of being...courted. It had never crossed her mind for some reason; she had imagined kissing him, holding him, curling up in bed with him or simply sitting together at the end of a long night, but such tender gestures had simply not occurred to her.

She gave him a wide smile, and his shoulders relaxed a trifle. "They're beautiful, Grissom. But you didn't have to."

He cocked his head and regarded her, resuming his usual serene exterior. "I think I did." Before she could come up with a reply, he gestured at the restaurant's door. "Shall we?"

They ended up having a ridiculously sugary breakfast. Grissom chose strawberry blintzes, and Sara went for the bananas flambées, grinning as the server set fire to her meal at the table and then doused it with whipped cream in a show of skill. She had swallowed the first delicious mouthful when she noticed Grissom staring at her plate. "What?"

He shook his head. "I don't know how you can eat those." At her baffled look, he elaborated. "I hate bananas."

Sara had to chuckle. "If I can sit through you eating bacon, you can live through this," she teased, pointing her fork at his plate. He tried to look stern.

"I saw you talking to Greg last week while he devoured a huge meatball sub, Sara. It didn't seem to bother you too much."

She shrugged, and swallowed another bite. "Touché."

They ate in appreciative silence for a few minutes. Sara watched Grissom as he sectioned a blintz and poured strawberry sauce over the pieces, a look of mild bliss on his face. "I didn't know you loved strawberries, either."

He glanced up from his plate, and for a moment was silent. "My mother used to make these when I was a kid," he said at last, his voice quiet. "For special occasions."

"And California has the best strawberries," Sara noted.

Grissom stabbed one section with his fork. "Want a bite?"

A number of rather salacious responses came instantly to mind, but Sara suppressed them. "Sure."

She expected Grissom to pass her the fork, but instead he extended it across the table, offering her the morsel. She almost refused, not positive she wanted to take such a step, but the sauce was about to drip onto the table, and besides--

She couldn't resist the dare.

Sara leaned forward and took the bite, neat and fast, and sat back again. The sweet sauce was a perfect foil to the creamy filling, and she could see why Grissom liked blintzes so much. She munched, and swallowed. "Those are good."

Grissom was staring at her with the air of a man who has waved his hand in gesture and seen a dove burst forth from the sleeve like a magician's trick. "Um. Yeah."

Sara gave him a smile, and went back to her own meal.

**xxxx**

Grissom sat down on his couch with a sigh, weary in body but relieved in mind. The resolution to the Abel case, falling into place, was a great release of the tension that had dogged him for weeks. But the slight mental dizziness wasn't just from that.

He put his shoeless feet on the low table and picked up the morning's paper, extracting the crossword puzzle and setting the rest aside for the moment. A pen and an open bottle of beer sat on the table next to his feet, and he took a drink and picked up the pen, filling in the squares with absent skill. It wasn't much of a challenge, but it made a good wind-down ritual for the end of the night.

_Sara._ He hadn't been at all sure what to expect when he'd met her at the restaurant. In fact, Grissom had half-expected her to tell him she couldn't do it, that he was too late after all. The sight of her standing there, head tilted back into the sunlight, had tightened his throat with her vulnerability and grace.

She'd been a little puzzled by the flowers, he could tell, but to him they had been necessary; not only proof that he meant what he'd said about wanting her, but also the accolade she should have been receiving all along.

He'd tried to take the check at the end of the meal, though, and Sara had snatched it up with a warning glare. It had gone against the grain instilled by his mother to let her do it, but there was no point at all in making Sara angry, and it had been her invitation.

_Things change. _He sent a silent apology to his mother.

She hadn't given him an answer to his--well, he hadn't exactly _asked_ for anything, had he? But she hadn't put him off, either. In fact, he got the distinct feeling that she was testing him, trying to make sure that he'd meant what he'd said.

It was only fair. He knew that. And on one level he was pleased by her caution. They had time to take this slowly, even if his declaration had seemed to give his desires permission, and the need to be _with_ her in some fashion was stronger than ever. Grissom had to admit that the Abel case at least let them spend more time together, and their working rapport was firmly back in place.

He filled in another string of squares, a clue he'd seen a hundred times already. _I want more. _

You always have, his conscience chided him, and it took you until now to do something about it. Be patient. Let her choose.

He had to admit, the last time he'd tried to woo a woman it hadn't gone well, but it hadn't mattered nearly as much. Terri had fascinated him, but she expected things from him that weren't part of his makeup. She hadn't understood him, nor he her really.

He understood Sara. And she understood him with a depth that was frightening at times. Sara was important, as Terri and Charlotte hadn't been, as Heather never could be. It was one thing to realize that someone had the ability to see into your heart. It was quite another to know that they already held the key to it.

He could almost see it, Grissom thought, a little bemused; an old-fashioned, long-barreled silver key held in strong fingers. He glanced down at the crossword, which he'd finished without really noticing, and wondered abruptly if his own hands held her key still.

**See Chapter 9**


	9. 9

**Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any. **

**Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life." **

**This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.**

**As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist! **

**Attention: if you are on the mailing list for my site, and you have an AOL e-mail address, the updates are not getting through. If you want to continue receiving them, please e-mail me with an alternate address at either my Gmail address or the one listed at this site. Thank you! **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

The wheels of justice were still greased with cronyism. This time when they went to interview Susan Methody, it was at the jail; she had already been arraigned. Where she had appeared dainty to Grissom before, now she just looked small, huddled into an orange jumpsuit a size too large. His eyes flicked automatically to her abdomen, but it was far too early for any evidence of the life within.

Methody sat down at the battered metal table without a word, her eyes blank. This time Grissom joined O'Reilly at the table, and Sara took the lurking position at the back of the small, grimy room.

Grissom took the lead; this was all about the evidence, and the detective's presence was mostly a formality. "Miss Methody," he said, keeping his voice gentle. "We have evidence that shows that David Phillips was not at the scene when Corey Abel was murdered. Care to revise your statement?"

Methody didn't even seem to hear him; she simply stared into nothing, slumped in her chair. Grissom had seen this before, the stunned retreat of a mind that had never really believed that it might be caught. It was sadly common among the more selfish criminals, those who committed crimes of passion and who were already uninclined to consider consequences.

"What do you have?" asked Methody's lawyer, a bored-looking older man in a conservative suit.

Grissom didn't look away from the young woman. "Prints on the knife used to stab Abel." Methody's shoulders twitched at his words, a slow-motion flinch. "And no evidence at all of David Phillips at the location where Abel was killed."

"It's hard to prove a negative," the lawyer commented laconically, though his eyes were sharp.

Sara paced forward, her gaze too fixed on Methody, and Grissom listened with cool appreciation as she took up the thread. "Here's how I see it, Susan. Maranatha catches you two together, and runs away. You figure things are over between them, so you tell Corey about the baby."

She put both hands on the table and leaned down. "But he's not happy about it. In fact, he blows you off and leaves. And you get angry. After all, he's the father of your baby."

The lawyer shifted a little, but didn't interrupt the CSI. "It takes you a while to find him, but you must have known where Corey and 'Natha would go to hang out. Not your kind of place, is it? But you drive all the way out there. Maybe you thought he'd cool off, change his mind."

Methody was looking at Sara now, eyes still huge and blank. "But he doesn't, does he?" Sara went on. "Maybe he says he's still in love with 'Natha. Maybe he just tells you he has no intention of marrying _you._ Maybe he says he isn't sure the baby is his."

A tremor ran through Methody, and Grissom guessed that Sara had hit a sore point. She continued, never letting her gaze waver. "He doesn't take you seriously, does he, Susan? You're not important enough. So you get the knife from his car, and you stab him. Five times, for everything he's put you through. For your baby."

The tears were back, rolling down Methody's face and leaving damp marks on her jumpsuit. "David did it," she said in a soft, mechanical voice. "David killed Corey."

The lawyer's lips thinned, and he looked across the table at the detective and the CSIs before reaching to whisper in Methody's ear. She didn't respond, her gaze gone distant again, and after a moment the lawyer shook his head.

"My client has nothing further to say," he stated, and that was that.

"What do you think?" Grissom asked O'Reilly as they emerged from the jail into the harsh light of midmorning. The big man shrugged.

"Ten to one she'll end up pleading insanity," he grumbled. "Might not even get to trial."

"That's unlikely," Sara objected. "It's a political case." She glanced over at Grissom. "Do you think they'll still go after David?"

He shook his head. "Without any evidence of David at the scene, her accusation is baseless, and we can make a good case that she tried to set him up. My guess is that her lawyer won't even bring up the matter in court."

Sara blew out a breath, reaching back to rub at the nape of her neck, and Grissom reined in the urge to put his thumbs there and make her tension go away himself. "So we're…done."

"I am," O'Reilly said, stretching a little. "See you guys later."

Grissom watched him go, stumping across the lot to bed or his next case, and turned back to Sara. "I promised to keep David and Albert in the loop," he said, suddenly feeling very tired.

Sara regarded him for a second, then reached out and took his wrist lightly in her fingers and tugged. "I'll drive."

They went first to the Phillips house, and 'Natha was at the door as they got out of the car, her serious young face breaking into a warm smile as they came up the walk--they didn't even have to say a word.

She ushered them into the living room. "I'll get David," she said quietly, and vanished. Grissom watched Sara look around unobtrusively, pausing at a family photo on a bookcase. A hint of wistfulness touched her expression, and Grissom guessed that she was comparing the Phillips household to her own childhood home. His heart ached a little at the thought. Colonel Phillips might have been a strict parent, but there was no doubt of the love.

The next person into the room was not, as they expected, David, but a woman perhaps ten years older than Grissom, leaning heavily on a cane. She smiled at them both, graciousness and warmth unmarred by the lines of old pain in her face. "Please, have a seat," she said quietly, and Sara did, though habit made Grissom wait until Mrs. Phillips had made her slow way to a wing chair before taking his own seat.

He did, however, choose to sit next to Sara on the couch. And took heart when she neither twitched away nor gave him an odd look.

David came in a moment later, a slow shy smile blooming as he saw them. Grissom grinned back, his fatigue lessening with the bearing of good tidings. "We found the crime scene," he reported. "There's no evidence at all to indicate you were there."

David's smile widened, and Mrs. Phillips reached up a hand to him; he wrapped his fingers around hers without even looking. "Methody hasn't confessed, but with this much against her the prosecution doesn't really need a confession," Sara added.

The coroner sighed, and Grissom could all but see the burden sliding off his shoulders, though sorrow still bracketed his mouth. "She really did it, then." At Sara's surprised look, he shrugged a little. "I was kind of still hoping it was...somebody else."

_The gentle heart,_ Robbins had mused to Grissom about his assistant. Grissom knew he himself tried to practice dispassion, but now he wondered if he could be as compassionate about someone who had tried to frame him for murder.

David's gaze shifted to the hallway, and Grissom turned a little to see 'Natha. "It's over," David said gently, and went to hug his sister. She buried her face in his shoulder with an audible sniff, and Grissom turned back to give them a little privacy. _David lost his dignity, and almost his job,_ he thought, _but Maranatha lost both her fiancé and her best friend._

Mrs. Phillips was watching her children, her face soft. Beside Grissom, Sara stirred, and he glanced at her. "It could have been worse," she murmured, almost too softly for his ears to catch. "She could have lost her brother, too."

**xxxx**

The colonel was at work on base, but David phoned him to pass on the news, and in unspoken agreement Grissom and Sara stayed for a while to drink coffee with the Phillips and eat David's latest batch of cookies. Sara found it easy, which surprised her a little, but what surprised her more was Grissom's apparent ease with David's family and the way he discussed heirloom roses with Mrs. Phillips. She'd had no idea that he knew anything about roses beyond the aphids that ate them.

At one point Sara rose to make use of the bathroom, and on the way back to the living room met 'Natha in the hallway, carrying the coffeepot and crumby plate back to the kitchen. Glancing into the living room and catching a scrap of conversation concerning pruning that sounded appallingly technical, she strode after the younger woman.

"Mind if I hide out in here for a minute?" she asked wryly. "If I go back in there, they'll ask me something to be polite, and I'll have to confess that the closest I ever came to gardening was mowing _lots _of lawn."

'Natha laughed, and flipped her braid back over her shoulder. "Feel free," she said. "I like roses as much as anybody, but I leave the clipping--" She gestured as though holding shears. "--to Dad now that Mom's not up to it any more." She sobered a little. "It's really too bad, we finally got settled in one place and she got sick. She only got a few years of gardening in." She removed the used filter from the coffeemaker and replaced it with a fresh one, then shot Sara a curious look. "Did you move much when you were a kid?"

Sara gave her stock answer. "Just around the Bay Area." And like most questioners, 'Natha accepted it, reaching for the coffee can in one cupboard and opening it to measure out the grounds.

"We used to move about every eighteen months. It's hard to keep a garden that way." Her voice was matter-of-fact rather than complaining, and Sara leaned against the big kitchen's counter and wondered for the thousandth bleak time what it was like to grow up in an atmosphere of peace.

But that was old habit, and if the scars had been stretched a little lately, she could live with it. "Bet you got to see a lot of interesting places that way."

'Natha agreed, and at Sara's encouragement told a couple of stories about getting lost in New York City when she was seven and David sixteen, and about the one year they spent in Alaska and looking out the back window to see moose in the yard.

When the coffee finished brewing, 'Natha lifted the pot deftly to the tray, but then hesitated. "Can I ask you a question?"

By which she meant the case, Sara assumed. "You can ask, sure."

'Natha snickered. "But you might not answer?" Sara shrugged, grinning at 'Natha's perception, and 'Natha grinned back, and then sobered a little. "Um…why wasn't Dad a suspect?"

Sara relaxed at the question; it was one she could answer freely. "He was, at first. But the, uh, blows were delivered by someone shorter. He was too tall." She shrugged again. "That didn't take him off the list entirely, but the evidence pointed us elsewhere almost immediately."

"Huh." 'Natha bit her lip, apparently thinking, then nodded and picked up the tray. Sara looked at the line of her shoulders and guessed that the younger woman was hiding a great deal of what she was feeling, but Sara didn't blame her. _Kind of hard to mourn the guy who cheated on you, and the woman who killed him; but it must still hurt like crazy. _

She drove Grissom back to the lab so she could drop off the SUV and they could pick up their cars. He made a quiet phone call to Robbins en route, though Robbins' relief certainly wasn't quiet; Sara could hear the triumph in his voice over Grissom's phone even though she couldn't make out the words, and she smiled to herself. On occasion, the job had its benefits.

They both had to collect their things, Grissom from his office, Sara from her locker. She got her bag in short order and headed back out, thinking ahead to warm blankets and sleep; somehow the image morphed into Grissom half-covered by a sheet, sound asleep in her bed, his arm wrapped around her waist and her face buried in his neck.

It wasn't new, by any means, and automatically she moved to suppress it…and then stopped, both inside and out.

It wasn't an impossibility. Not any more.

Sara pursed her lips to suppress the smirk. Being caught by Dayshift staring into nothing with a salacious look on her face wouldn't do anything for her reputation. She shifted her bag to her other shoulder and kept going, but her path took her past Grissom's office.

_He looks so tired._ Grissom was leaning against his desk, going through a handful of papers and frowning--more in concentration than anger, she thought. His eyes were narrow behind his glasses, and smudged with weariness. They had both been driving themselves hard to cover the Abel case and still keep up with the night shift's other cases, and it showed on him.

The desire to haul Grissom home and look after him wasn't new, either, but it was in a way a thought more tender, more shy. It too was infused with that new possibility, but Sara still felt wary. Grissom was giving every indication in his reserved way of being ready to try a relationship, but--

_You'll never know if you don't try, Sidle._ She had more than one set of scars, and the ones associated with Grissom were twinging, but Sara squared her shoulders and tapped briskly on the glass.

Grissom's head jerked up. _Go home,_ Sara mouthed at him through the window, and he gave her his wry half-smile and set down the papers. She pointed a finger at him, a stern reminder, and headed for her car.

Rather to her surprise, Grissom caught up to her in the lot. "Please tell me you're heading home too," he said as she turned to see who was walking up behind her.

"Oh yeah. For once I think I'll be able to sleep." She fished in her pocket for her car keys. At the mention of bed, Grissom's gaze flicked down her body and back up, almost too fast to catch, and she hid a surge of feminine pleasure.

His car was three spaces down from hers; getting to work early did mean she got a better chance at a slot close to the coveted reserved spaces, three of which were kept for the shift supervisors. Grissom didn't walk past, though, as Sara stopped to open her passenger side door and throw in her bag. She gave him an inquiring look.

His chin went up a little. "I'd like to see you later, if I may," he said, his tone calm but his eyes not quite settling on her. The sight made her insanely cheerful.

"Sure," she said, glancing around the lot under cover of closing the car door. Midmorning meant that the employee lot was pretty well deserted, which suited her fine. Impulse swelled, sweet and wicked, and Sara leaned forward and kissed him quickly. Her aim was a little off, and the kiss landed on the corner of his mouth.

She straightened before he could react, delighted, frightened, and thrilled all at once. "Call me when you wake up," she said casually, and whisked around the front of her car to get in.

She waved as she put the car in reverse, and he waved back automatically, but he still hadn't moved by the time she pulled out of the lot. His image in her rear-view mirror had one hand lifted to touch the spot she'd kissed.

She grinned ferociously all the way home.

**xxxx**

Sara's nerves didn't reappear until the knock on her door that afternoon. She'd slept neither long nor well, but she was used to that, and a hot shower helped. And if she'd shocked Grissom that morning with her kiss, he gave no hint of it when he called and asked calmly if he could take her out for dinner before work.

Now she smoothed down her shirt as she walked towards the door, then shook her head in irritation. _Get a grip, Sidle._

When she opened the door, she saw that Grissom looked no different than any other worknight; he wore slacks and a collared shirt and his dark blue windbreaker, and he'd parked his hands in the pockets as usual. Sara gave him a bright smile. "C'mon in."

"I'm early," he said, closing the door behind him and following her as she walked back towards her tiny kitchen.

"That's okay, I need to clean this up anyway." The contents of a cold case file was spread out on her breakfast bar.

She reached across the counter to pull the sheets together, only to see two hands settle on the formica, one on either side of her. Sara went very still as the heat of Grissom's body registered behind her and every nerve awoke.

They'd shared such moments before, but never with such deliberate intent. Sara wrestled with her hormones for a second, then wondered why she was bothering. "Need something?" she inquired lightly, though the pressure of her fingers was creasing the papers.

Her skin went shivery as Grissom's breath brushed her ear. "I'm trying not to assume anything here," he said softly. "But am I correct in guessing that you've come to a decision?"

He had her caught, but he wasn't pushing, Sara realized; he was close enough for her to feel his warmth, but only their arms were touching. It felt...amazing.

Then she saw how tightly his fingers were gripping the counter's edge, and smiled to herself. Slowly, she set down the papers, pivoted in the cage of his arms, and slid her own hands up over his shoulders. "Yep."

Those shoulders sank a little under her palms with his relief. His eyes closed for a moment, but when they opened again Sara found she couldn't look away. Everything Grissom had been hiding for so long was there...shining, heartbreaking. She felt her own breath leave her with the strength of it, and laced her fingers behind his neck.

Grissom smiled, that small sweet smile that had always been her downfall, and with a slowness that made her tremble, he leaned forward until their lips met.

The soft pressure, the slide of skin against skin, the flavor of him filling her nose and mouth, all these snuffed rational thought; some broken circuit was completed in the touch, and Sara felt as though light was running over her, as though they could illumine Vegas itself with the sheer pure joy of it.

Strong hands found her waist, slid up her back; Sara pulled Grissom closer, not wanting any space between them now, and tilted her head for better access. He felt so good, so good, better than she'd imagined, and she was afraid to stop, because if they stopped, it might turn out to be a dream.

They did stop eventually, but Grissom didn't allow much space either, and he didn't loosen his arms around her any more than she relaxed the grip of her fingers. "Oh," Sara said weakly, and Grissom's gaze met hers, dazed and delighted.

"Sara," he said, just her name, and she smothered her grin against his mouth.

It was slow, and sweet as honey wine; she learned the contours of his lips and teeth and tongue, and he hers, with exquisite concentration, and all she could think--when she could think at all--was _Oh, finally, finally. _

He tasted like pumpkin, like Christmas, like fresh-baked bread, all the homey things she'd missed growing up, and always wanted.

_Finally. _

She didn't let go, and neither did he.

**xxxx**

It wasn't planned--well, Grissom didn't think it was planned. After all, there was no predicting exactly when either of them would arrive at work, nor that they would happen to do it at the same time. The only people who knew they would be coinciding was themselves.

But they walked into the lab together, having traded a few last soft words outside before tucking their new secret away for the night. Grissom held the door for Sara, as he would have anyway, and if her smile was a little more warm, it wasn't that noticeable.

Nonetheless, heads turned as they came in, and stayed turned. For a few seconds, Grissom entertained the dreadful thought that someone knew somehow, or that Sara had missed a bit of her lipgloss when she'd wiped his mouth earlier.

But the smiles weren't knowing...they were beaming. It started with just a couple of people, Judy and Nick, but within seconds everyone in the lobby--techs and admin and three cops--was applauding. And more were coming in from the corridors and the labs, adding to the noise.

Sara stopped in her tracks, and Grissom nearly ran into her; he could see the crimson flushing up her skin, and felt his own ears growing warm. But she was laughing too, and Grissom couldn't help the smile that escaped him, half embarrassment, half pleasure.

Fortunately for their composure, the applause died off after a moment or so, with most of the crowd moving off with a few shouts of "Good job!" and the like. Nick, however, came up to envelop Sara in a bear hug.

"_Great _job," he said, releasing her and turning to Grissom to shake his hand. "Man, we knew you could do it."

Grissom returned the younger man's grip, but had to say it. "We were only following the evidence, Nick."

"You know we would have even if David had been guilty," Sara added, surprising Grissom a little.

"But he wasn't. And somebody else might not have noticed him getting framed," Nick countered firmly. Which, Grissom had to concede, was true.

At that moment, Robbins limped rapidly into the lobby. "Oh good, you're here. Come on, come on." He gestured back towards the morgue. Grissom and Sara exchanged puzzled glances and followed, Nick and a couple of the techs bringing up the rear.

Others joined them as they headed to the morgue, Robbins exhorting various people as he passed their labs. They all crowded into the cool echoing space; Grissom spotted both Brass and O'Reilly across the room, and Warrick and Catherine at the back of the little mob. Robbins herded a last few in, then pulled out his phone as it rang. The murmur of voices quieted.

"Great! Thanks, Judy," Robbins said, and shut it off. "He's on his way."

He shut off the lights, and Grissom, vastly amused, stood next to Sara in the dimness, their backs against the cadaver drawers. He resisted the temptation to lace his fingers through hers, but they did exchange a quick, conspiratorial glance, hidden amid the whispers and anticipation.

The morgue's doors swung open as David pushed his way through. Robbins flipped the lights back on, and the assistant coroner froze, blinking and wide-eyed.

And the room burst into cheers.

David was swarmed almost immediately by people wanting to shake his hand, pat his back, or hug him, and while he turned so red Grissom was concerned for a moment that he was going to pass out, the coroner managed to keep his composure--though he did turn an even deeper shade of red when several of the female lab personnel planted kisses on his cheeks. Robbins stood back, beaming; Grissom looked over at Sara and jerked his head in the medical examiner's direction, and she nodded. They made their way over.

It was strange, Grissom thought as he watched Robbins place a kiss of his own on Sara's cheek; such a sight, just a night before, would have stirred him to uneasy jealousy, but now that he knew that any part of her face was his to kiss whenever he desired it, he was only happy.

_Strange...but good. _

Sara grinned at the medical examiner, who grinned back and then turned. Grissom returned his handshake with more ease than he had Nick's; Robbins didn't bother with words, but their eyes met and Grissom knew what Robbins didn't say.

All three of them looked to David. The enthusiasm surrounding him had subsided a little, people breaking off into smaller groups to chatter in the impromptu celebration. Bobby was just ruffling David's hair, and as the ballistics expert turned away, David reached up to smooth it and saw them.

His brows went up, and Grissom realized with an odd twitch that while he and Sara might have hidden their tender new secret from other eyes, David already knew. _Probably before we left his house,_ Grissom thought ruefully. _Certainly before we knew for sure._

David smiled his shy private smile, and winked, and turned to greet another well-wisher, and Grissom felt his admiration for the coroner go up another notch.

"What do you think?" Sara asked, her voice low and amused. Grissom chuckled.

"I think we should enjoy the party."

**End.**


End file.
